


moving right along

by devils_trap



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bisexual Arthur Morgan, Bisexual John Marston, Bottom John, Crossdressing, Genderplay, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Oral Sex, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Praise Kink, Pre-Canon, Rimming, Top Arthur, alcohol use, homestead robbery home invasion, john marston and his fight to prove himself, not sure how to tag for that since it's all john and all kinda nebulous, this became a super long character study sorry y'all, though it's...arthur pigtail pulling more than anything, would it be weird to tag for home invasion bc that's...what this is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-14 08:26:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18049058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devils_trap/pseuds/devils_trap
Summary: There’s nothing like it: the knowledge of a job well done, a plan carefully crafted, Arthur fucking Morgan's stamp of approval. Even though it hasn’t exactly happened yet, it’s going to go flawlessly, John can feel it. John made sure of it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Be My G.I.R.L](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5709361) by [NiceTinCan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NiceTinCan/pseuds/NiceTinCan). 



> the underage warning is there because i never specifically state john's age, though imh i peg him somewhere between the 17/18 cusp? just to be safe, i've thrown the tag in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the fic that inspired this is a rick/shane twd fic and 👌 BOI

“Y’planned all this out yourself, did you?”

“Yeah,” John breathes, the pride welling up in his chest expanding so quickly he’s a little winded by it. It’s hot in his veins, coursing outward through his limbs whiskey bright. Like standing in the sun without his hat and his hair tied back, Arthur's approving gaze stronger and more scorching than the sun's own rays. It's feverish along the tips of his exposed ears, his forehead, smarting in his cheeks. It tingles in his fingers, has him shifting in place like there’s ants in his fucking pants.

There’s nothing like it: the knowledge of a job well done, a plan carefully crafted, Arthur fucking Morgan's stamp of approval. Even though it hasn’t exactly happened yet, it’s going to go flawlessly, John can feel it. John made _sure_ of it.

Made a list, checked it twice. Checked it more than twice, obsessing over it for days before bringing it to Arthur, the final phase of testing. Writing and rewriting his plans in an old, beat up journal, liquor and blood stained in places and water-warped in others. He’d pinched it from some slob in the saloon when he’d first stumbled upon his future mark, nabbed it off a sticky table and wandered off to take a seat in the back corner with it pressed flat against his thigh.

Usually he’d just craft and weave his plans in his head, maybe drag his fingers through the dirt floor of their tent if he needed to make a quick visual for it to click in his mind’s eye, but this needed to be better than some dusty, half assed recreation in the dirt. This _had_ to be right, perfect, flawless, or at least as close as someone like John Marston could get, before he presented it to someone - to Arthur, because there was never anyone else even in John’s mind that he’d want to do this with more.

Even if Arthur _can_ be a big, know it all, devilishly handsome bastard, and just a single appraising look from him can get John stood straight and ears perked upright like a God damn dog.

So, he hadn’t taken any chances. Poured and slaved and put everything into this for the past week and some change. The planning had the added benefit of making him feel like Arthur, closer to him. Sharing the secret of privately divulged thought, both of them scratching away by firelight in their little journals and refusing to share the contents with anyone.

Arthur rarely ever showed John what was inside his journal, but he’d caught John’s eye while they both wrote on opposite sides of the fire a few nights ago, and he nodded like he approved.

He always did like to emulate Arthur, his gait and his speech patterns and the way he’s comfortable inside his skin, a fully grown man wise to the world compared to John and his impulsive youth, his impatient need to _know_ things so maybe he could make up for what he lacks, and the lack of patience with which to truly absorb those things.

But, somehow, the knowledge that _John’s_ the one to have put that expression on Arthur’s face is even headier. A pleasure John’s seldom experienced, better than any _good job, kid_ pat on the back, or even the rare peek at Arthur’s journal. Now that he’s gotten it directed at him full force John realizes he’d do just about anything to have this, again and again and again: Arthur looking at him as more than just a nuisance, some kid brother buzzing at his ear like a particularly persistent mosquito, all loudly flapping wings and too long limbs and crackling, sandpaper hissing, _Arthur? Arthur, I ain’t a God damn child, Christ’s sake! Lemme do it. Hmph,_ **_thank_ ** _you - wait, what...what’m I doin’? Sh, shut up, I - I got it!_

Arthur looking at him like he’s a _man_ , a man with impressive things to offer and skills he’s honed. The kind of man he’d rob a homestead with, trusting him to watch his back just as Arthur watches his. Pistol out and bandana pulled up high to disguise their faces but John _knows_ that cheshire grin is there, splitting his face wide, for the thrill of it, for _John,_ because John wears its twin and can see it in Arthur’s bright eyes.

The corner of the right side of his mouth is quirked, now, softened in the lantern light inside the tent they’ve shared practically since John had joined up, sparing the nights spent beneath the stars on the trail of game, and those where Arthur left camp to spend his nights in the bed of a woman who doesn’t, didn’t, even want him.

Just what he _could_ be, if she tried hard enough to pull and prod and tug tight. Shoving him into the body of a man so far from who Arthur truly is and cinching him at the waist tighter and tighter until those soft, mauve lips are tinted blue and he passes out, all so maybe he could be found worthy to a father in law not worthy to _know_ Arthur in the first place.

But John doesn’t want to think about that now, not when the smile on Arthur’s face is still rising like the sun because of John, not some woman who’d shuck off the hard parts of Arthur Morgan and try to change him. His smile’s not manically gleeful like Arthur can get while on a job, sharp white teeth bared, snarled, like a wolf’s, but private, gentled, proud. Genuine. Fond and a little pleasantly surprised. It’s steadily growing outward, sinking into his features as the plan beds down in his thoughts, making those seafoam eyes crinkle in a way John just wants to touch.

With his fingers, with his lips, with his forehead pressed against Arthur’s temple as John rocks in his -

The mental image is so arresting John doesn’t hear what Arthur says next, but he doesn’t, couldn’t, miss the way Arthur’s smile stutters and hardens. His eyes darken, ocean tide rolling out, away, sucked backward into the depth of him and churning so suddenly stormlike. The look that’d crackled through them is gone as soon as it appears, along with all of the oxygen in John’s tight, stinging chest.

Arthur’s gaze evens back out as he squares his shoulders, plants his feet in the dirt in that particularly sturdy way he does that always reminds John of stubborn horses. John saw it, though, that flash of Other lightning quick out in the water, striking hard against the surface and killing everything swimming in the immediate area, John’s optimism and Arthur’s smile included. John’s limbs tingle like he’s been zapped, the prickling numbness of loss of blood circulation, and no, no, no, he had it! He fucking had it!

Arthur can’t take this from him, it’s _not his._ It was to be theirs, but if Arthur doesn’t want it he doesn’t get to keep it.

“Wait, what? What! Now, you wait just a God damn minute, Arthur Morgan, y’can’t -”

“I ain’t say nothin’,” Arthur rumbles, thunder rough, and now the corner of his smile is sharpened, pointed like a blade. He wields it against John like John’s some unruly circus animal in one of Dutch’s novels, prods him backward hissing and spitting and jumping and _God dammit!_

“Y’can’t cut me out of my own job, Arthur! Ain’t right, I - I did all the work! _I_ brought _you_ in on this,” John shrieks, unmindful of how truly thin their canvas walls are with their illusion of privacy. He can’t hear the rest of the camp over the rushing in his ears, thunderous and pounding stormwater runoff threatening to pull John under. Can’t hear Arthur scoff at him and throw his head, sandy blonde hair flying like the God damn mulish bastard he is, but he knows he does it.

Can just barely see it in the lantern light through the welling of frustrated, stupid tears stinging his vision.

“You brought me in on -”

“Yes, me!”

“Will you stop your shriekin’, Christ Almighty, kid,” Arthur huffs, that low drawl of his catching on his final word. _Kid_ , not the man John’s desperate to prove that he is. He fishes around in the back pocket of his jeans for his wayward pack of cigarettes. John’s pretty sure the whole thing is an act, this devil may care nonchalance. A front to deliberately wind John up like a clockwork toy, some mad scientist’s creation. Act like this is nothing to him, just another bout of John buzzin’ away in his ear. Get him so frustrated and indignant that all of his energy is diverted to countering the way this particular injustice stings, with none left over to actually combat it. Exhaust him before the battle’s well and truly begun.

Put the fussy fucking baby to sleep by letting it cry itself out, then head out while it’s conked out, cheeks damp and brine tight.

John’s pretty sure, but he still charges headfirst into it. No choice in the matter, never a choice where Arthur is concerned, always tugged along by some invisible string.

“This ain’t fair, you big bastard,” John hisses, words skinned and cracked like that string attaching him to Arthur’s attached to Arthur’s _horse_ , and he’s screamed himself raw after being dragged along some winding backroad path, “and you fuckin’ know it -”

“ _Fair?_ What part of life is fair, boy? Ain’t none I ever seen.”

“I  - shut up! Don’t gotta take this so damn literal, y’know, and quit fuckin’ interruptin’ me! This is my plan, I -”

“Just need me to be the muscle, and the brains, and the assurance of success, right, right. Very much a Johnny Marston masterpiece,” Arthur hums. The smoke from his cigarette is starting to cloud the space between them, heavy and clove scented. John’s never been much for smoking, not liking the way it makes his lungs feel tighter, stretched too thin and itchy.

Arthur knows that. It’s almost like he’s daring John to do something, anything to break apart the little standoff they’ve found themselves in. High noon despite it being closer to midnight, Arthur as usual better armed - with his actual gunbelt on to boot, but even without it Arthur’s always been able to shred John to bits at a moment’s notice, with only that quicksilver tongue and those intelligent eyes - and better positioned.

To air out the place, John’d have to go around him and yank the flap open. Arthur would laugh at him, accuse him of running, or, worse, acting like a girl.

Unzipping the back half of the tent would just make Arthur laugh at him even more, _Y’tryin’a escape me, John Boy? Runnin’ away from con-fron-tation, now ain’t that a surprise. Sheit, where’s the fire? Under your skirt there? No wonder I couldn’t see it._

The smoke at least gives his eyes a reason for watering the way they do. John longs to scrub at them, dig his palms and the sharp jut of his wrist into his eye sockets until they burst with colors instead of fucking waterworks. But even that would give him away, give Arthur more ammunition against him than he’s already got.

Hosea tells him it’s fine, it’s okay, it’s _natural,_ that John’s just better tapped into his emotional reserves than some of the others. _The fire in your heart boils your blood so thoroughly the steam manifests in your tear ducts,_ he’d said.

It’s fucking bullshit, is what it is.

“I knew I shoulda just done it myself,” John hisses through clenched teeth, surprising himself with how steady his voice is. Instead of battering himself against Arthur like he certainly anticipates John will, John's going to disengage. Show some of that growth Hosea's always rambling on about, the kind he needs to _harness within himself, unless he wants to get eaten up in that blaze, boy_. Whatever the fuck that means. “Needs a more delicate hand, any how, not some giant oaf’s clumsy paw.”

“Sure would know about havin’ delicate hands, wouldn’t you, Jo?” The way John rears back a step, jaw audibly clicking shut, gives Arthur pause. He’s got the hand with his cigarette idly smoking half extended in front of his body, urging John to calm, to forgive Arthur for always going so damn far with his pigtail pulling. He might even be making that quiet humming noise he does for wild horses he wants to catch and turn a quick buck on. “Shit, kid, I’m -”

“S’fine. Lemme alone,” John grunts, jaw jutted forward so Arthur’s next words hit him there instead his bare cheek. It has the added bonus of hiding how flushed they are.

Before Arthur can say another word, John snaps forward and snatches back the journal he’d chicken scratched his master plan into. His index and middle fingers scratch against the dry skin on the top of Arthur’s hand, maybe even scrape off a layer or two of skin and leave it jagged and curled alongside the dirt beneath John’s nails. Once in hand, he takes a step back from Arthur, eyes narrowed, journal shaking in his trembling fist, like John’s a rattlesnake letting Arthur know he feels threatened and he could strike out again at any moment. Do something worse than take back _his_ work and a top layer of skin.

“Listen, John,” Arthur starts awkwardly. It could be just a trick of the light, but his cheeks look pinker.

“Naw, I’m done listenin’ seein’ as you are,” John counters.

“You’re not goin’ alone.” Arthur takes a step forward and again John scurries back, journal behind him. He seems to realize his arm’s still up between them and drops it limply at his side. “Shouldn’t be doin’ this kinda thing no how, kid, and -”

“Will you stop calling me that! I’m - I’ve seen men die. I’ve been killin’ men long before I knew any of y'all. I can rob a fucking house and you know it, Arthur, ‘nd if you don’t wanna ride with me then just fucking say it.” He’s not gonna cry, he’s not gonna cry. John widens his eyes and narrows them repeatedly, hoping to encourage the waterline bordering his vision into receding. “I’ll get - get someone else to go with me, or just do it alone. I’m not some fucking _girl_ , Arthur.”

There are worse things than being a girl, John knows. A coward, a traitor, those are things to truly be ashamed of. John’s known plenty of women more capable than half the men in this camp - certainly worth more than the likes of Uncle - and most of them do it all in heels and a bodice.

Arthur Morgan just gets under his skin like a God damn blade. Slices John open like he’s no more than cotton and roots around inside. He wouldn’t mind quite so much if he thought maybe Arthur felt it too, that invisible string connecting them, drawing John nearer and nearer with every sunset and sunrise. If he thought it meant more to Arthur than just kinship, he’d willingly let Arthur inside, let him see all of the dark, shameful parts of John he tries to hide even from himself.

Show him that John feels more for him than fraternity, that he thinks of Arthur in a way no brother should feel about his own kin. Show him that John’d do anything Arthur asked, just say the word, be it dropping to his knees in supplication or climbing astride Arthur’s in a slightly different type of worship.

That he’d willingly be a girl for Arthur. Dress up nice and pretty, all of the air squeezed out of him in a bodice laced a touch too tight. Let Arthur touch him beneath it, _fuck_ him beneath it, mascara smeared and rouge beginning to sweat off, John’s thought about it all.

Gladly show him that he's good at more than just running his mouth and being a bother. Show him he picked up more than gunslinging and robbing while he was on his own.

Arthur would probably recoil from him, tell him in that deadened tone that means he’s truly disgusted that John better never, ever bring any of this mess up again, lest he put the fear of God in him.

Maybe that’s why that particular insult rubs him so raw, worse than being constantly underestimated. It’s too close to home, just a hop-skip from pansy, dandy, sissy, _queer._ In the eyes of some, that’s even worse than betrayer. Even amongst liars and thieves and former whores, John’s the one with the most darkness in him. Unnatural, immoral, as if a gang of robbers with the knowledge of three, maybe four Bible versus amongst them, can claim any semblance of morality.

The awkward silence stretches on between them. Neither of them move.

Then there’s a clamoring from somewhere within the camp, pots and pans smacking loudly together, then followed by muffled cursing. Swanson, maybe, meandering drunkenly through the tents in search of another bottle or one of his _special books_.

John jumps, spooked. If he weren’t suddenly so damn tired, he’d be embarrassed by that, too, but he’s at the end of his rope. He just wants to sleep, now. Forget he ever showed this to Arthur in the first place.

“S’fine,” John mumbles, almost to himself, “s’fine.” The journal bounces off the furs atop his bedroll when he throws it down, and without further ado John gives Arthur his back and makes about going to sleep.

“Lord above,” Arthur huffs, taking a long drag from his cigarette. It’s almost gone out, the time between hits too long to keep the cherry well and truly burning. He has to work at it for a moment, and the ensuing flaring of the cherry is bright in their dark, cramped space. Even with his back turned, John can see the way the light brightens momentarily, cast against the canvas before him. “If it’ll get you t’stop your belly achin’, we’ll go. Together. I lead, k...John. Y’follow me, no questions, okay?”

“Sure.” He doesn’t believe him. John knows placating when he hears it, gets it plenty from Hosea and Dutch. He doesn’t usually get it to this degree with Arthur, but he’s never pressed his luck so directly before. Maybe Arthur would’ve shot him down other times, but Dutch or Hosea beat him to it.

“How long do you think it’ll take to ride out?” He’s still standing behind John, watching him kick off his boots and shimmy out of his outerwear. John’s down to his union suit and already beneath the fur of his bedroll before he answers, and it’s little more than a noncommittal shrug and an aimless sound in the dim. Arthur probably can’t even make out him doing it.  “Christ. I asked a question, Marston.”

“S’a little under two hour’s ride,” John mumbles. He makes a show of getting comfortable, hoping Arthur will take the hint and leave him to stew or to sleep, John’s genuinely not sure which.

For safekeeping, he tucks the journal beneath his chest.

The force with which Arthur rolls his eyes is practically audible. He sucks hard on his cigarette again before chucking it into the dirt at his feet. John swears he hears it hiss as Arthur grinds it beneath his boot.

“Tomorrow, near sundown. We go, scope the place out - see how good your intel really is - then we do this. Okay?”

He knows it’s bratty, _childish_ , but John pretends he’s already asleep.

-

He sulks. At breakfast the next morning, he mechanically works his way through a lumpy bowl of grits streaked black with chunks of charred venison. Hosea tries to rope him into conversation, to soothe some of the _tumultuous waters of youth_ as he’s fond of calling it, but John’s not interested in being led away from his unhappiness.

It’s his, just like his plan, and he’ll hold onto it all with both hands until his palms are skinned and bloody.

Arthur avoids him, but that’s okay because John’s avoiding him, too. Usually John would quietly - or not so quietly, John the peanut gallery to Arthur’s strong, silent type - follow Arthur around camp, see if he needed help, if he wanted to do some target practice. Maybe head into town. Stuff John long since learned how to do on his own, and is forced to humor lessons on for the sake of his _Family_ and their unnecessary need to protect what remains of the child in him, if he ever wants to leave camp again.

As if there’s any bit of the boy John Marston remaining, after all he’s seen. After all he’s done.

After all he’s _endured._

Now John sits as far away as he can without being called on the sudden change of heart.

He does his chores without being asked twice, which in and of itself gets him the hairy eye from Ms. Grimshaw. It’s something to do, something to keep him occupied and away from Arthur, so John’ll take the shoulder aches that come from hauling around hay and sacks of grain for a good portion of the morning.

Not even her cajoling about his hygiene gets a rise out of him. He takes the soap she brandishes at him while she gently scolds him about the travesties of growing his hair out the way he does, only to neglect it.

“A long curtain’a grease it is, boy, unnecessary.” But her voice wavers as she watches him peter down the hill and towards the water. Her hand is still extended, palm flat though vacant, rigid in concern and surprise, by the time he’s knee deep.

When he returns, hair stringy and dripping but clean, Ms. Grimshaw shoos him off as soon as she’s able, lip worried ragged between her teeth.

At least she doesn’t ask him if he’s alright.

-

John finds himself back inside the tent he shares with Arthur, thankfully without the man himself. He cracks open the journal and stares, until the words and little doodles all over the page mix and blur, unrecognizable like they’d been when Dutch first scooped him up out of destitution.

They’ve long since been memorized, John having poured over them time and time again since first formulating his plan. Without having to read his own note in the bottom right corner, thrice underlined, John knows he has to move quickly, ideally by the end of tomorrow.

The family the house belongs to is out of the area for a funeral, the wife’s sister or someone akin to that, the mark was drunk and slurring during that part of the tale, having suddenly died. The father had entrusted the property’s security to a neighbor, and while in his hay day he might’ve given John pause...he’s old, tired, so far removed from his army glory days that his body’s just as rusted as his bayonet.

It’ll be easy to knock him out. Hell, John could probably do it without even alerting him, if he’s careful and light on his feet.

It’d be easiest with a partner to watch his back, even with one as heavy footed as Arthur.

That’s out of the cards now, fifty-two pick up and no time to start piling them up.

“Like hell that’s happenin’ now,” John mumbles, and sucks hard on his teeth as he forcefully shuts the journal. He needs to plan a way to escape camp now that he’s gone and stupidly blabbed to Arthur. He’s avoiding John, sure, but the man’s like a fucking hawk. Even purposefully not looking at John, he’d probably still catch him trying to saddle up and slink out of sight. Grab him by his ears and drag him bodily off his horse, scolding him all the way back to their tent.

He could always go late, with the quarter moon somewhat illuminating his path. It’d put even more of a time constraint on his plan, and he’d have to sneak past Arthur, too, who even snoring like a bear wakes up at the slightest provocation, but…

But. He could do it. Show them all, show Arthur. Throw a fat purse into the collection tin in the morning and listen to its rattling against barren metal walls get swallowed up by praise, hoots and hollers.

By Arthur fucking Morgan having to eat crow and tell John he did good.

“John, y’in here?” Arthur calls, poking his head into the tent. His golden hair looks red in the light of the setting sun, awash in flame. John probably thought about it all too loud, made Arthur’s ears itch and burn.

“Obviously,” John replies, sitting on the ground before Arthur. Arms spread wide as if to better illustrate the point of his existence.

“Little shit. Wanted to know if - what’re y’doin’?” Fully inside the tent now, Arthur nudges at the journal in John’s lap with the tip of his boot.

“Nothin’,” John says, probably too quickly, shuffling the journal under the thigh of his crossed legs. He knocks his knuckles against the sole of Arthur’s boot in his haste, and has to keep himself from making a sound and sucking the sting out of his skin.

“Nothin’, my ass. Christ, said I’d take you. Y’thinkin’ of runnin’ off on me, Marston? Get yourself killed that way.” Arthur swoops low to try and take the journal, but John’s faster. He shifts it quickly out from under his thigh and presses it tight to his chest, arms crossed atop it, even as Arthur’s roughened grip squeezes and pulls on his wrist.

“Riiiiiiight, like I believed that for a minute. Just mind your own business, Arthur, and I’ll mind mine, a’ight?” He tests his luck with breaking Arthur’s grip, but it’s no use. John’s faster but Arthur’s stronger, and short of stabbing Arthur in the forearm with the little pencil digging into John's thigh within his pocket, he’s not gonna unhand him until he’s good and ready.

For a long moment, Arthur studies his face, gaze flicking from John’s eyes, to his mouth. The tip of his nose, the curling strands of his clean hair framing his face. It’s unnerving, being pinned under his scrutiny like that. John fidgets, wishing he’d thought to check his own handiwork somewhere more private, where he could escape if he had to.

Finally, Arthur speaks, his voice so low and roughened John shivers in his grip. He hopes Arthur chalks it up to the low fall wind lightly knocking against the canvas, curling chilled fingers beneath the lip of the tent and creeping inside.

“Your business is my business because _you_ are my business. Understood, Marston? Get your shit packed, y’got ten minutes.”

-

It’d be a nice moonlight ride if it weren’t so God damn awkward.

John wants to make small talk, fill the cavernous void between their horses with idle chatter until things are normal again since he can’t challenge Arthur to a race. Instead he flexes his sweaty grip around the horn of his saddle and nudges his horse through another murky pond, frothy green and scuzzy water sloshing against the ankles of Old Boy and Boadecia.

He’s technically leading since he knows the way better than Arthur, but Arthur’s horse is a few paces before John’s. Arthur keeps his head turned and dipped slightly to the left, listening out for the direction John gives his horse with the reins and his stirruped feet.

John hopes his attention is more on the path before them and less on John so he can continue staring without making things even more tense.

He wonders what’s going on inside that brain of his, imagines the inner machinations of Arthur Morgan’s mind would put him on his ass if the way his outward hot-cold-hot-cold personality sometimes gives him whiplash. There’s always so _much_ going on within Arthur that he keeps to himself, so many burdens Arthur allows the world to keep heaping onto his shoulders without so much as asking them to stop, or for anyone to help him.

John’d help him. God, John would take anything Arthur gave him, but as warm as the thought of being let in makes him, it’s fool’s gold.

It’s a struggle to keep his mood from entirely sagging under the weight of old disappointments. He tells himself it’s not the time to mope, nor the time to prove Arthur’s jabs true. He’s got to buck up and show his worth, and then he can crumble apart for a moment later once he’s alone.

They’re somewhere within Lemoyne, forty-five minutes or so west of Saint Denis. John would know they’re in swampland even if he hadn’t planned this out, just by how the air turns soupy even without the sun to bake the land. The terrain’s also flatter, though it doesn’t make visibility any better. The horizon is choked with mossy trees, willowy Cypresses and thick, stubby tupelos.

John only knows their names because of Arthur.

Even in the low moonlight, John can see the scars dug deep into the faces of the surrounding trees. He idly wonders about when those scars had been gifted, during the War or perhaps more privately done by the likes of people like Them, out robbing those with money enough to lose.

There’s a flowering plant growing in the center of one of the trees. John’d bet good money that Arthur knows the name of that, too. An orchid of some type, maybe.

“Huh. Well I’ll be damned,” Arthur mumbles. He pats Boadicea’s neck hard and nudges her forward a touch faster, no longer needing John’s directioning. John squints forward to see if he can make out what Arthur saw, and after a few more steps forward he sees the distinct shape of a plantation style house coming into view. They’d been riding through the trees to the side of it, and completely missed the dead give away for a plantation house: the long dirt driveway lined on both sides in arched oaks. Trees just look like trees to John, but being seeing the flare of its design, proud arches even in the night, John has to admit it looks good.

Makes a statement, _I’ve got a lot of money, come take it from me!_

“Might’a been right about somethin’ after all, John. Might’a.”

“S’a nice house,” John whispers. He’d known the owners had money, but he hadn’t expected it to be this nice, nor this big. They could easily fit the entire gang in there with room to spare, no more living elbow to elbow from sunup to sundown. John’s never had his own space before, and the thought of it is alluring and painful in a way he can’t put his finger on. He likes open spaces and all, likes the fluidity of life on the road and how things are always changing and moving and nothing wholly stays the same. Even living in each other’s pockets isn’t something that bothers John all that much until he needs to stew or rub one out.

He’s reminded of the house he lived in with Pa before the bastard died, a ramshackle squat little house with two rooms if you squinted. He’d spent every night of his childhood sleeping in the same space as his father, enduring his log sawing snoring and the way he mumbled in his sleep when he drank.

He would’ve given anything some of those nights to have his own space, so he could cry into his lumpy pillow when the beating he’d been given still stung so greatly he couldn’t sleep.

The orphanages had been even worse, and he tries his hardest never to think about that handful of years before he got wise to it all and slipped out in the night.

It’s not so bad with Arthur. He might snore, but it’s softened in the way that all things Arthur does are. He’s conscientious of space and careful not to use John’s things, so long as John extends the same courtesy.

He still can’t take his time touching himself, though. Has to race through it, make it purposeful instead of basking in it like he wants to. Hand in his pants within his bedroll, legs spread and draped uncomfortably over the lip of his cot so he can get inside himself with ease, but also be able to swing them shut in a somewhat natural fashion should Arthur come back too early.

Arthur would slam his hand over his eyes, mumble thickly that it’s his bad, he’ll go. Tell John it’s natural and expected for a boy his age, though John doubts he’d say that if he could see the pomade glinting on John’s fingers, or warm and slick between his thighs.

Still. Still.

S’a big fucking house.

The thick copses of swamp trees begin letting up their chokehold on the land, opening up to the lawn of their mark. The manor is bright and clean even in the dark, white like the flag of surrender, tar black on the roof. The front porch looks to wrap around, dotted with lounge seating, lined in old Roman style columns. An aged building, but they maintain it well.

There’s a candle lit in each one of the twelve front-facing windows, more than likely a tactic to dissuade those with sticky fingers itchy on the trigger from trying their hand at divesting the homeowner of their possessions. Make it look like everyone’s home, hoping it’s enough to give your would be enterprising robber cold feet.

John’s feet ain’t cold. His heart’s in his throat and there’s buzzing in his ears, but they’re going to do this.

They have to.

“You wan’ run point, or y’wan’ me to?” Arthur asks. Just the fact that he offers knocks John a little breathless. Arthur likes to do things a very certain way - his way, or at the very least Dutch’s way, the showmanship scuffed and dulled into purposefulness and practicalness so Arthur can better wield it - so even the thought of him giving John the reins is enough to make him giddy.

“I - I wanna, but I…” John grits his teeth in the quiet as they dismount and hitch their horses within the heart of the clusters of trees edging the property. He doesn’t want to admit that he doesn’t know what he’s doing, that he hasn’t attempted a score this big on his own before, but this isn’t a game.

This could be life or death, even with how much planning has gone into this - and not even just his own life. Before the Gang, John couldn’t give less of a shit about most other people, but now? They’re all he’s got, and he’d take a bullet for all of them.

Most of them. He’d at least throw something in front of a bullet meant for Uncle.

John wants to be his own man, but not at the expense of Arthur’s life.

The hand on his shoulder isn’t pitying, just grounding. Arthur’s fingers dig into his skin, knead the muscle beneath for a few moments. They press reassurance into the meat of him, Arthur saying it's okay without words, that while maybe not the easiest option for John's pride he made the right choice.

“You ain’t never done this before, John, not like this, so just follow me, ‘kay? We’ll...we’ll get you your chance to run the show someday. If this plan’s as tight as your little chicken scratch suggests, well...might be sooner rather than later.” Arthur shoots him a smile, soft and faint, and it knocks back into John like he’d shot him with buckshot instead. “But don’t go gettin’ cocky on me, okay? Gotta do this cleanly. Smart. Ain’t gon’ risk your life for the sake of your pride.”

“I ain’t gonna do anythin’ stupid, Arthur. Wanna -” Make you proud, make you _see me._ “- do this right.”

It’s the right answer again, mostly, smudged and awkward but there. Arthur squeezes his shoulder again. Gives John a look he wishes he had time to decipher and gingerly pulls John’s bandana up around his face, tucking its tie and some of John’s loose hair behind one of his ears. Arthur’s fingertips ghost along its shell, tingly and goosebump inducing.

Just over the too loud beating of John’s heart, he hears Arthur say as he rights his own bandana, eyes now as dark and intense as the bottom of a lake gazing over John’s shoulder instead of at his face. “Then let’s do this right, boy. C’mon.”

John follows in Arthur’s shadow through as much of the tree coverage as possible, managing not to trip over darkened roots or the scurrying, fearful rodents weaving between them, or his own two God damn feet. The muscles in Arthur’s back shift sleekly as he walks in a half-crouch, strong and majestic like one of the big cats. Limber as he ducks and weaves, none of the clunky stiffness that has John silently clocking his knees and elbows against tree bark.

John’s known Arthur was good at this kind of thing, possibly the best out of the gang, but being able to just...drink his fill without anyone nudging him into paying attention is a pleasure John’s not used to, and knows to take it all in while he has the chance.

They get as close to the manor as they can within the tree cover. With a quick signal over his shoulder, Arthur directs them forward and across a naked stretch of lawn. Even slivered, the moon offers too much light for comfort, and John feels himself goosebumping again, this time in fear and thrill both as they quickly hurry to the base of the closest window.

“Watch me,” Arthur whispers, stopped beneath the outermost windowsill. He turns to John, waits to see him nod, and then rises almost to his full height so he can check into the first window. Big hands cupped around his eyes like blinders. He scans the room, head moving minutely from right to left and then back. “Clear, far as I can tell. Get the next one.”

For a few moments, all John can make out is the glow of the candle inches away from the windowpane, but once he allows his nerves to settle his vision expands. The room is dark and tastefully decorated in warm wood tones, possibly a study of some sort, and most importantly: it’s empty. Unless some lunatic guard the owner hadn’t spoken of has painted himself up to look like a full bookcase, John’d say it’s clear, too, and he tells Arthur as much.

They clear the remaining four windows on the lower level in much the same way, Arthur then John, wash, rinse, repeat. The first two windows on the side of the house furthest from where they started showcase a parlor room. Inside it on a far back couch near an evenly burning fireplace sleeps the guard John had been anticipating. Gray and grisled, they can hear him snore through the glass.

“We keep this quiet, or we knock him out?” Arthur asks, body turned to face John. His eyes rove over John’s face, blue as steel.

“Uh. We...we knock him out. Yeah. Safe than sorry,” John says, chewing on his lip. Arthur nods at his answer and reasoning both, looking proud, and John fights against the urge to shimmy his shoulders in victory like a bird as they carefully make their way up the porch.

“Gon’ have to teach you how to pick lock one day, but not this one. Just keep watch, will ya’? I’ll have us in in a second.”

John remains half-crouched as Arthur takes a knee and fiddles a hand in his jacket’s interior pocketing. The tiny satchel he removes is leather, worn smooth and buttery from consistent use over the years, and the metal tools he retrieves from inside it look to be iron. They click and clink within the lock as Arthur works, but the door itself makes no sound as he carefully eases it open less than a minute later.

John makes no sound, either, breath held in his lungs until his chest burns, each foot carefully lifted and then dropped with painstaking care. Arthur is more at ease by leagues, breathing calmly and slowly. He doesn’t modulate his gait like John does, but Arthur always walked with a slow, swinging grace anyhow. Hips working like a rudder, evening him out. He’s naturally smooth where John is clunky, nervous, big feet and too long limbs, always trying to be Good and Right when Arthur always just...innately Is.

They stop a handful of feet from the sleeping body of the so-called guard. When he exhales on a choked snore, air whistles through his nose and ruffles his, frankly, impressive mustache.

John wants to be the one to put him down, to know he’s the one responsible for removing the one and only obstacle between them and success. But this has to go right, no room for pride or foolish error. John’s good at taking out a target, but subduing requires a little more finesse, a patience and care stabilizing one’s hand that John just doesn’t have. It pains him a little to do so, again giving up key roles in his own Plan, but John looks at Arthur and simply nods towards him, and then their guard, and hopes Arthur understands.

He does. Arthur springs forward viper quick as soon as the message is received and snuggly fixes his hands around their man’s throat. It’s almost stupidly easy how quickly he’s put back into a deeper sleep. There’s not even enough time for him to fully wake up before it’s done, and he’s limply laying half on, half off the couch.

“‘kay, ‘kay...we clear the rest of the lower level, then the top,” Arthur says, words hushed to emphasize how serious this all still is. They can whip out their guns if need be, but things would be better for everyone if they took enough care to avoid that altogether.

Just because they were only informed about one guard, doesn’t necessarily _mean_ there’s only one. Plans change, security doubles, triples closer to the date of departure.

Safe versus sorry.

The room behind the parlor is a hallway, giving each lower level room access to the main staircase. In the light of several small lit candelabras, they start with the far left room for their sweep, and while it’s so ripe with the scent of drying herb it’s nearly a physical entity, the room itself is empty.

John’s never been around such nice stuff in his _life._ He keeps an eye on the shiny bits in each vacant room, catching the firelight in the dark. This family probably had, or has, dealings with slaving, with how much wealth is built up within the manor. Dirty money, blood money, the type that never seems to leave a trace inside the house besides in gold and silver, but clogs up the hearts of men. He doesn’t have a problem with stealing from people who can afford to lose some, but he _really_ doesn’t lose any sleep at night taking from those who earned their wealth by literally taking from other human beings.

By the third of five rooms, John’s bored. He can’t tell Arthur that, so he keeps his mouth shut and continues eying up the place. Admittedly, he’s not keeping as quiet as he could be, but there’s no one _here_ , and -

The ceiling above them creaks. Arthur sways to a stop, his hand up and index finger already extended to still John as well. They stand there for a few heart beats, listening as someone walks across the upper level, Arthur’s hand inching closer and closer to his piece as the unknown person upstairs makes their way towards the stairs.

“Thought you said there was just the one?” Arthur whispers, and while his words are sharply hissed, his gaze isn’t harsh. The bandana keeps John from reading his entire face, but Arthur almost looks _excited_ by the promise of possible violence, like he was just as bored as John twiddling his thumbs and creeping around in the shadows. At the end of the day, Arthur’s still an outlaw. Probably more at ease with gunslinging than sneaking, anyhow, though John reckons they’ll keep at it until they’re found out.

If, they’re found out.

“Bernard? You awake?” calls out the unknown party, a man by the sound of it. He’s almost stage whispering, like he knows the answer to his own question. Polite, not wanting to wake up the old man if he’s asleep like he assumes he is, but bored just like they are of, tired of shambling about in the dark, amusing himself with theatrics.

They watch him descend the stairs from the doorway of the third room, John in the forefront because Arthur can cleanly see over the top of his head. No one else answers him, so there likely isn’t anyone else in the house.

Arthur’s a long line of heat pressed tightly against John’s back, so close he almost squeaks and gives away their position when Arthur curls over him a little to whisper in his ear, “Wanna try your hand with this one?”

This one’s younger than the man on the couch, but not by much. Awake, and armed to boot, though he walks slowly down the stairs with stiff, rickety joints.

“How’d...how’d I do it?” John breathes. He’s killed men before, robbed even more, but then it hadn’t mattered if killed them in the interim. Here, now, John doesn’t necessarily _want_ to kill some fool old man just monitoring an empty manor for a lazy friend.

The soft chuckle Arthur gives disturbs John’s long hair, makes it tickle against the apple of his cheek.

“Number a’ways, you’re a smart boy, John, contrary to popular belief. But. I’d use the butt of your pistol. He’s shorter ‘en you, y’shouldn’t have trouble clockin’ him good. Just make sure you hit hard,” Arthur says. After a moment, he snorts, the sound hidden in the creak of the stairs. “Hit ‘im and pretend you’re hittin’ me.”

“Bernard, y’old bastard,” the man teases fondly, shaking his head near the landing, “lucky I’m here to watch the property.”

Lucky, indeed.

Under Arthur’s watchful eye, John steps out of the shadows as soon as the man’s back is to them. He’s heading towards the room attached to the parlor on the far side, the kitchen area of the house, mumbling to himself about food. There’s a deafening buzzing in John’s head, but he knows he makes no sound as he slinks forward, syncing his steps with the man’s.

He keeps his hand tight around the grip, with his finger firm against the frame. He doesn’t want to shoot the bastard, even if he somehow botches this, and he knows himself well enough that his trigger finger discipline isn’t good enough to keep his finger on it and not pull if it goes tits up.

Hosea had always tried to get him to loosen up, to make killing the last resort instead of the first, while a childhood of trauma had taught John to empty the cylinder first and foremost. It was a hard lesson to unlearn, fingers unfurling from their white-knuckled grip gradually under Hosea’s care and tutelage, and frankly John’s not even sure he’s shaken it off fully. He’ll have to tell Hosea about this, though, how he circumvented a known issue just like he’d’ve wanted John to.

He thinks about Hosea rolling his eyes fondly at him as he brings the steel down with all his might.

He thinks he might hear something crack as it connects, but it could just as well be John’s clenched teeth as the man’s skull.

The man doesn’t go down all the way on the first hit, and for a moment panic and shame both swamp John. Before Arthur can even tell him to do it again, or push him out of the way and correct John’s wrong, John’s arm is lifting.

There’s blood on the barrel of John’s gun, flashing black in the candlelight.

The man’s turning around to face him, making grunting, wounded sounds.

John swiftly crushes the man’s face on the second swing. More blood streaks across the steel. It sprays out along John’s fingers and onto the floor as the man’s nose is broken. Some must spurt as far as John’s chest, because suddenly his shirt is damp and sticky along his collarbone.

The skin bruises and tears beneath the man’s eye, which go wide and fearful for but a moment before they fog and close.

He’s killed people before, but usually from a distance. It’s sometimes hard to stomach the pain and surprise and _fear_ in their eyes, especially when caught off guard and unawares like this.

He’s not even dead and John feels weirdly guilty.

The man slumps to his knees. Despite being out cold, he doesn’t fall over entirely until John knocks him back with his foot. He’d’ve used his hand, but it’s shaking around his shiny, reddened gun, and he doesn’t need Arthur to see that.

Arthur, who’s probably rolling his eyes. Wishing he’d done that, too, to keep John from fucking up.

John can’t help but spook when Arthur comes up behind him and claps his shoulder, but Arthur doesn’t draw attention to it. He just gruffly tells John good job. “Some sons’a bitches take more’n one swing, y’got him down s’all that matters. C’mon, let’s...let’s get started.”

“Don’t y’wanna clear the upstairs?” If he weren’t so focused on getting his gun back into its holster, missing a few times before it slides home, and his hand to still, John’d be embarrassed by how soft his voice is. With how piqued his nerves are, he might just spook his own fucking self with the sound of his youth and uncertainty reverberating throughout the empty manor.

“We’ll be careful up there, but if anyone else was in the house I reckon they’d’ve come lookin’ or made a racket goin’ to hide.”

Arthur carefully steps over the slumped body of the second guard and leads John into the kitchen. He’s already rooting through drawers when John swings the door open, crouched low and pulling out cans and utensils until he makes a soft _aha!_ and unearths an empty sack.

“Put your shit into this, huh?” Arthur grins. “S’a lot here.”

“I’m...I’m gonna start upstairs,” John says. He takes the bag without meeting Arthur’s eyes.

“Hey - hey, now. John.” Before John can say he’s fine, everything’s okay, Arthur’s back in his space. With a steady, careful hand, Arthur tugs down the bandana he’d affixed on John’s face and eases it back around his throat. John feels naked without it suddenly, especially in the face of Arthur’s own covered features, but as soon as Arthur finishes with John’s he makes quick work of his own. Arthur Morgan, always a fan of tit for tat. “Y’did good. Don’t - I’m proud, okay? S’a good plan. Good execution. Nothin’ to be ashamed about.”

“I’m not ashamed,” John spits, words crackling in his throat. “Don’t need no coddlin’.”

“Good, ‘cause y’ain’t got reason to be. And, better, ‘cause I ain’t fixin’ to.” Arthur pats John’s shoulder again, squeezes it tight. It does a lot for soothing John’s sudden bout of nerves, even has his hands more or less still against his sides. He can't help but feel like one or Arthur's project horses, though, soothed by soft claps and softer words. Bucking and neighing and rearing his head back, but Arthur's steady, calm, in control, knows he'll wear him down into passivity like all the others.

John takes the sugar cube of praise from Arthur’s work roughened hand, with needy hands braceleted around Arthur’s forearm, and a needy, swirling tongue.

“Y’can go upstairs but if there’s anythin’, _anyone_ up there, you make as much noise as possible, y’hear? Say it.”

“I hear, I hear. Now lemme go.” He gives a small smile when Arthur huffs a perturbed laugh at him, and manages not to stumble too badly when Arthur forcibly turns him and pushes him away.

The man’s still where they left him in the hallway when John leaves the kitchen area. He’s breathing thickly, the sound clunky and wet in his mangled nose. John taps him in the chest with the tip of his boot. Once, twice. Presses a little harder on the third time, until his toes protest the pressure.

Nothing.

“Sorry, mister, for what it’s worth,” John mumbles.

At the base of the staircase there’s a small mahogany table. At least, he thinks it’s mahogany, John doesn’t actually know for sure. Arthur’s pointed it out to him before - _There, John, y’see? That rich old bastard at the mahogany table? That’s our target. Hm? Oh, mahogany’s a type of wood. Fancy, reddish._ \- but it hadn’t been useful enough for John to remember more than the basics. It’s dark reddish, too dark for what he guesses would be cherry. It’s a nice table, with a cotton white doily atop it, and a stack of letters atop that.

To the side of the mail, there’s a bottle of whiskey. Expensive. If John were smart, he’d just fence the entire bottle. He’d probably get two, three dollars for it at least.

John snatches it before he begins his ascent and unscrews the lid with his teeth as he’d seen Uncle do. It feels funny, hurts his teeth, and he doesn’t get the lid off the entire way the first try, but he manages on the second and spits the lid over the rail. It plummets to the ground, tinkles against the wood as it bounces, but John barely hears it over the sound of his own swallowing.

A few mouthfuls won’t hurt him none, just settle warm in his gut and calm whatever remains of his frayed nerves. Plus, he did a damn good job here, all things considered. Arthur said so. He’s entitled to a congratulatory drink.

He tells himself he won’t drink enough of it to get sloppy, and takes a long pull.

There’s only four rooms total upstairs, John finds out, the rooms all along the back of the house instead of running along both of its faces. It’s open enough up here to hear Arthur humming to himself as he continues pilfering in the kitchen.

He hits the master bedroom first. It smells clean, fresh linens and dried aromatic herbs in the air. Both windows and the patio door ajar to allow fresh air to circulate, aid in keeping the perfume wafting about. It’d be a hell of a place for a nap, with the big poster bed against the far wall and the cool crossbreeze dancing along the bed’s lower ruffling. Luxury in a way John’ll never get to have, just take for a few moments, illicit and hurried.

He dwells on it a little, throwing himself down onto the mattress. Kicks his dirty boots up onto the sheets and purposefully drags his heel against clean white until it’s brown and streaked. At least his hair’s clean, and there’s very minimal blood on his person.

After a few more pulls of whiskey, small sips because even expensive whiskey can taste like rotgut, John hops back up. He hunts through drawers with his left hand and clutches the bottle with his right. Most of the stuff in here is sellable but not terrifically high valued, silver pens and belt buckles and a pearl necklace tucked low beneath an old nightshirt.

He finds a money clip beneath the mattress, though, right next to a small stack of bonds.

His face is hot, so he fans himself with the wad as he continues his search. Continues to do so as he leaves the room, burlap sack no longer empty but jingling and jostling as he walks to the next room.

Another bedroom, this one with two small beds in it. Boys’ toys on the floor, crude swords fashioned from wood on the ground next to a significantly nicer wooden sailboat. John never had toys like this, hell, never really had toys _period._ He made due with what he could steal or fashion himself and hide from his Pa, who’d’ve broken anything he found. Crude stick figures looped around with twine, or strange rocks that could be animals if you pretended hard enough.

There’d been a doll, once, rough stained burlap and horse hair along the top of her head. She’d been missing one brown eye and her blue dress was frayed at the hem, but she’d been pretty once upon a time, and while not super expensive she’d’ve been a luxury the Pa never would’ve afforded John.

He hadn’t even been that taken with her, but finder’s keeper’s, she was _his_ when he found her in the dirt a quarter mile from their piss poor excuse for a house.

Was his, until Pa found her.

John was lucky he only got the belt, while she’d faired much worse. He’d be finding stuffing and strands of horse hair around their house for days after the stinging stopped.

He thinks he might have even shot her, or at least tried to, out in the sunbaked dirt in front of their home. _No son of mine is going’ta play with queer things such as dolls, boy._ John knows he heard the bang, but it’s more than likely in his drunken stupor he’d taken out his rage on an anthill or some unsuspecting spiders.

It smells stale in here, unlived in. The window is closed, unlike in the master, and upon closer inspection there’s dust along the trunks sitting at the foot of each of the beds.

John remembers the mark mentioning a wife, and a daughter, but no sons. He was the type to have gleefully mentioned heirs, too, boasting about the fruit of his loins like a drunken idiot. Told the entire room about his daughter’s dreams of being a seamstress.

 _They might be dead_ , John thinks, lifting a fine silver picture frame off the dresser near the door. Two boys, twins. Ruddy cheeked and silver-blond, stiffly dressed and squinting at the cameraman. The one on the left has the sailboat dangling from his hand, and the boy on the right has a stuffed rabbit clutched tight to his chest.

There’s dust along the dresser top in some places, but missing in others. Devoid of it along the outer lip, like someone had posted up there and sat for a long while. There’s a chair beside the dresser, turned at a strange angle. Scuff marks in the wood from repeated moving.

It’d be easy to picture a parent sitting vigil there, stroking the picture slowly. There’s no dust on it, either. Clean as a whistle. Its frame even shines in the little moonlight leaking into the room.

There are fingerprints smudged along the glass, lovingly pressed against their cheeks.

 _Definitely dead._ John gingerly eases the photo out of the frame and lays it, face up, on the dresser top, in one of the spots free of dust, while slipping the frame as quietly as he can into his bag, along with the bonds.

He spends less time in this room than he did the last, cold suddenly and uninterested in stealing from the dead, let alone dead children. He does find two cigarette cards in a desk drawer, so he snatches those for Arthur and quickly beats feet onto the third room. They’ve got no need for them, now, and Arthur collects the damn things, so...into John’s pack they go.

It looks to be a woman’s work room, judging by the loom near the window and all of the fabric spread out across the table in the center. Hosea had taught both he and Arthur how to sew and mend their own clothing, so John knows a thing or two about _women’s work._ Arthur hadn’t liked it very much, had grumbled about the needle in his hand being too fine and too prone to biting him, but John had found it almost calming. Mindless at times and repetitive, something monotonous to sink into.

Arthur hadn’t liked that very much, either, if the relentless teasing had been any indicator. John takes a pull of whiskey at the reminder, face screwing up at more than just the burn that slides numbly down his throat.

There’s a few freshly started garment products on clunky cloth mannequins, both fashioned in the deep, rich jewel tones of fall. They’re both overdresses, if John remembers correctly.

He tries not to.

They’re handsome, though. Soft beneath his wandering fingers as he strolls past.

The forest green one has pale ivy snaking along the top, near the bust, silk embroidery against cotton. John’s hands look dirty, wrong, fiendish as he pets it.

The nice shearing scissors he finds beside the dress go into his bag easily, tucked carefully between items so the tip doesn’t puncture the bag, but there’s not much in here of value that John’s interested in lugging around. Especially not with Arthur around.

Arthur’s singing is a little louder, little bolder, when John exits the work room. Echoing from somewhere near the study on the lower level. He’s off key and tone deaf as usual, and John’s just drunk enough to still find it endearing as all hell. With a sigh John leans against the nearest wall and just listens to Arthur caterwaul and mumble to himself when he forgets a lyric or loses the beat. Lets himself imagine that God awful singing voice crooning at and for John, who’d be wooed even if the tone of it could make a cat spit and hiss.

He stays there for a long few moments, warm again and a little sleepy, before resolutely pushing himself back upright.

The final room is, unsurprisingly, another bedroom. The daughter’s, John’s memory supplies, triggered by the scent of faded sugary perfume.

The only surviving child it seems, and they’ve doted on her. There’s more in here to take than the other rooms combined, and once John stumbles across an article of clothing too big for anyone beneath the age of fifteen, John has no qualms stuffing the sack until his wrist aches beneath the weight.

There’s a fine silver brush on the vanity top, finer blonde hairs woven into its horsehair. He spots it after he’s divested another picture frame of its photograph. John’s just loose enough with drink to sit on the bench before the mirror and run it over his own hair a few times. He feels silly doing it, but it feels nice against his scalp. Scratches softly as it parts through the strands.

Arthur’d probably laugh if he caught him. John’s grip tightens around the handle until his knuckles blanch.

Imagines the family coming back to their house robbed and horse hair all over the daughter’s floor, a bullet hole through the brush and floorboard both, dead center because Arthur Morgan does not miss nor waste bullets on anthills, and it’s like some off-kilter deja vu that John can’t quite make heads or tails of.

Arthur’s a good man, even when he says he’s not. He probably wouldn’t do anything of the sort as to share traits with John’s deadbeat Pa.

But, but. This is as unnatural, _immoral_ , as John’s supposedly sinful predilections. John doesn’t know what Arthur would do in the face of them, and doesn’t care to find out. Arthur’s neither a particularly God fearing man nor one interested in subscribing to societal norms, but even the most godless of son’s a bitches might try to lay John out if his _natures_ were to come to light.

He sits for another heartbeat, picking out the strand or two of his own hair woven into the bristles and letting them fall to the floor, and then feverishly throws the brush into the sack. Rising to his feet, he decides to raid through the armoire next, telling himself it’s to search for hidden away trinkets and not for anything else that’d get him mocked.

With that in mind, John decides to keep any messing with garments to a minimum, even if they are soft and delicately made and smell lightly of perfume.

He tells himself it’s best to be thorough and touch each item at least once, though.

Rummage around, wrist deep in lace or fresh cotton, velvet a few times brushing against his knuckles, just to check. Just to be sure.

Keeping the haul in mind, nothing else.

There’s more pearls hidden in the bottom drawer of the armoire, beneath a heavy woolen shawl. John’d reckon they’re a matching set to the pair he’d lifted from the mother’s room. Best to snatch both sets, matching even in their absence. They’re pretty, he guesses. Kinda purposeless if he’s being honest, but they fetch a decent enough price.

Diamonds and precious jewels, John understands. They’re pretty _and_ sturdy, and if he were to bejewel his fingers with them they’d add more than sparkle to his punch. He’s seen the damage Dutch can do with flat but bulky solid metal rings, he’d imagine the sharpness and toughness of stone would do even more.

While mulling over which would hit harder, emeralds or rubies or sapphires, John goes to take another mouthful of whiskey. He tilts the bottom back too far before his lips can latch and ends up wearing some of it. He manages to right the bottle before it completely bleeds out, but the damage is done.

His shirt was already a little sweaty and bloodstained before, but come _on._ He was hoping to hide the whiskey from Arthur, if he could.

The reminder that he shouldn’t’ve been drinking on a job, anyway, has him tucking the remainder of the bottle into a drawer. Then, hands up and fingers wriggling before his chest as John thinks and thinks and _thinks_ , he decides he has to get rid of the evidence.

Steal a shirt from the man of the house, that’s it.

The man’s clothing, not the daughter’s. Even if her stuff is closer and smells nice and would probably even fit better, John’s shoulders broad like a man’s should be but his waist remains petite and soft, no matter how much he eats and toils.

The man’s, the man’s, the man’s.

He’s just taken a step closer to the armoire instead of away, one hand idly petting at something soft and cream colored, and thrown his soiled shirt onto the ground when Arthur snorts from the doorway.

It has to be Arthur. Anyone else would’ve pulled a gun on him by now, and if he’s being honest with himself, that might even be preferable to this.

He doesn’t know what possesses him to do it, but John’s arms fly up and cross over his chest. Arthur’s seen him shirtless countless times, fully naked nearly the same amount. There’s little place for modesty in a community like theirs, nowhere to stow it on the wagons amongst the essentials. When you live in each other’s pockets, you sometimes see a cock you hadn’t meant to see, instead of the one you shouldn’t’ve been trying to catch a peak at but were going for anyway.

Maybe it’s the dried blood on his throat, or the liquor still burning in his gut and damp on his chest, or the open armoire doors fanning out behind him, with all their soft splendor in disarray spilling out thanks to John’s careless, dirty hands, John doesn’t know. But he sways, light headed. His cheeks burn like he’d been smacked. He closes his eyes tightly and hopes Arthur goes back wherever the fuck he came from, and does so making more noise so John can track him as he goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'ever abandon your Boy (in my case, fc5 fics) because fuckin'...cowboys just keep occupying your thoughts? :-| asking for a friend. the title is from lyrics, because i'm constantly humming noah gundersen when i think of arthur. i just Could Not decide on a name otherwise and threw my hands up. however the next lyric is, "with your white cotton dress" which, uh...made me Think about john despite, y'know, my heart set on red for him.
> 
> part two (the Dickening) is mostly finished, too, so, Aye
> 
> y'can [bother me](https://boneforts.tumblr.com) if you'd like (pls say hi 🥰)


	2. Chapter 2

“Gonna play dress up, John?” Arthur teases.

“Shut up. I spilled -” Shit. John clamps his jaw shut and worries at his lip.

His silence is as useless as his shielding arms as Arthur sniffs at the air, nose turned up high, a wolf scenting for its prey. As he walks into the room, his boots slap pleasantly against the hardwood, the rucksack of stolen goods jingling alongside it, slap TING. Slow and steady, calm, easy, _inevitable,_ like they were always going to end up in this bedroom like this, like he’s taking paces at dawn, but John’s missed the memo, John didn’t know about the duel. Unprepared as always, even when trying his best to be prepared. Reflexes unwarmed, he won’t drawn his weapon in time.

“Have - have you been drinkin’, John? Christ, that’s dumb even for you,” Arthur chides, but there’s no heat in it. He snorts again, fond, still driving home that stupid fucking horse comparison in John’s head, though Arthur keeps flipflopping between horse trainer, and the stubborn beast itself.

You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make it drink, you can will Arthur Morgan to go on somewhere but you can’t make him actually _fucking go_.

“S’no one else here,” John mumbles, still fighting it all: eyes closed, jaw clamping shut once the petulant words have left his mouth, arms barred across his chest. But he’s got more to say, gums always flapping away even when he’s internally yelling at himself to _shut the fuck up_ , “Who’s gonna jump out’n get me besides your dumbass?”

“You didn’t even hear me coming, kid. If it’d been a stranger, or worse, some - some bad man -” Of their own accord, John’s eyes open in time to watch Arthur pointedly give him a once-over, over soft, clean ringlets of raven hair and burning whiskey eyes; over a chest that’s been steadily filling out but will never reach anywhere near Arthur’s bulk; over the flat planes of John’s stomach, the skinny jut of his hips, and how even with a belt his pants are one wrong look from shimmying downward.  

Looking him over as if John’s state of disrobement means anything to _bad men_ \- oh.

Hm.

He’s never told Arthur about the things that happened in the orphanage. Never breathed a word about some of the tactics he used later on his own to get a hot meal and someplace dry to sleep. Jagged and ugly and repurposed to be welt by John instead of against him, a blade in his hands instead of between his ribs.

But both are common enough occurrences amongst the downtrodden that Arthur and the others might’ve seen more than John ever intended them to. Little peaks at cigarette-scarred ribs, and bruises on his hips and knees that would eventually fade from his body, but not their memories.

Flinches as John jumped quickly away from touch those first half dozen months, spitting and hissing like a terrified animal.

He’s not some - some _damsel,_ some helpless Thing out on the streets. Even when that had mostly been the case, he hadn’t been helpless then. But Arthur looks him over and there’s another lightning quick flash in his eyes, like in the tent what feels like ages ago. Emotion so strong and hot it could turn the sand beneath those seafoam eyes to glass.

He’s closer than John had pegged him, just two or three feet shy of John’s face, but in John’s defense the possible implications running wild in his head and the roaring of his own blood in his ears makes it hard to gauge Arthur’s footsteps.

He’s probably been thinking too hard, but he could almost swear he smells sea water, briney and sharp.

“We are bad men, Arthur,” John says softly, noticeably raspy, the heat of whiskey and embarrassment and stupid flashpoint youthful arousal having begun scorching his airway, “Y’think worse men than us are prowling around the likes of here right now?”

From one of the rooms on the lower level, he’d procured his own bag. Probably from the same cabinet he'd fished John's from, but John had been too in his head to notice. It's filled it near to bursting. John focuses on it, leant against the bed, instead of Arthur’s curiously blank expression. From the look of some of the burlap-softened lumps in his bag, Arthur’d snatched a few picture frames, too.

Near hysterically, John thinks about putting back one. Leave the poor bastards _something_ to hold their memories dear.

“Why’re you naked?”

John’s eyes fly back to Arthur, rolling with the subject change after a heartbeat of gaping. “Naked? I’m - I’m not. Shut up. I told you, I spilled some, and -"

Arthur makes a considering noise and walks around John. He drags a work roughened hand over the open door of the armoire when he gets close enough to it. John listens to it scratch against the wood, shivering like Arthur had dragged that giant paw across his own skin instead. It goes silent as his grip wraps around the bottle John’d deposited inside.

“Y’gone put on a dress there, John?” John can’t see his _face_ , can only watch a sliver of his profile as Arthur throws back some of the whiskey in a few big mouthfuls. His Adam’s apple works beneath stubble as he swallows, and John watches it bob so closely he loses his train of thought for a moment. He’s so caught up in watching Arthur drink that it doesn’t even occur to him to be upset that Arthur’s drinking on the job, too. “Can’t leave here lookin’ like that. Mighty in-de-cent.”

Voice honey sweet and _low._

It doesn’t matter if John’s recovered his train of thought, because Arthur derails it so completely John’s dizzy again. He stares at the side of Arthur’s face, willing Arthur to make sense again before liquid courage makes John do something fucking stupid.

Gets him his face smashed in and his legs weighed down with rocks, his body tossed in the swamp. Liquid courage meets watery demise.

“I was gonna go back into the -”

“No, you weren’t.” Simple, matter of fact. Doesn’t even wait for the whole lie. Arthur turns to look at John, hip cocked against the open armoire door. He knocks back more of the whiskey, long, deep pulls. He drinks it quickly like he’s trying to catch up, then carefully sets it down on the nearest flat surface, though there’s only a few more swallows sloshing at the bottom. “Seen the way you look at all the pretty ladies, John. Ain’t like most men do.”

“Shut up,” John whispers, fingers flexing at his sides, longing to draw his gun and make everything stop. But it’s Arthur, and he’d rather eat his own bullet than seriously hurt him.

Rather eat his own bullet regardless, if Arthur doesn’t shut up.

God, he wants the floor to open up and eat him. For a guard to wake back up and shoot him while he’s standing like a deer frozen in the middle of the trail, terrified by the sudden oncoming rush of a night train. For the fall wind to blow open the patio doors and knock over one of the lit candles and set the entire place ablaze.

“Sure, you fuck ‘em, but that’s not what you wanna do, right? Least, not all the time. S’cause you like the dresses, ain’t it, John? Clothes so pretty you ain’t give a damn about the filly inside ‘em, wanna _be_ the one cinched up in that bodice -”

The blood in John’s skull rushes through his ears, but it’s not loud enough to drown out Arthur’s words.

“Shut up, God damn you,” John begs. His eyes are stinging as the embarrassment starts to eat him alive, burning hotter and brighter than the whiskey and the arousal. The sting of humiliation in his cheeks only fans the flames of his arousal, how fucked up is that? “Y’don’t know what you’re talkin’ ‘bout, Arthur, so - so shut up, ‘for I make you.”

He doesn’t look scared of John, not that he ever is. Arthur even goes so far as to give John his back as he turns around to rifle through the armoire drawers, insult and reprieve both in the inconsequential way Arthur offers the unguarded expanse of flesh. Like he doesn’t even care that John could snap and shoot him, or bludgeon him with one of the silver candlesticks inside his bag. Bury his knife in the soft meat of Arthur’s side, right into a kidney because the angle’s wrong to sink it into his heart.

Not that John would, he’d sooner flee from this, from Arthur, from John’s foolishness and God damn stupidity, but he _could_.

Large, rough hands delve into the softness within the armoire, just as John’s had. There’s less reverence and care there than John had employed, but it is there, though slightly different from John’s. It’s wishful thinking, but he might be looking for something to best compliment John’s looks. Awed because John might wear it, not like John who wants to be the one wearing it.

Awed because he wants to see John all pretty and soft.

He’d promised himself he wouldn’t drink enough to get sloppy, and he’s broken it, alright. Stupid heart in his throat, beating against the back of his tongue alongside the taste of whiskey and _hope_ , bright and sweet.

“Y’got a favorite color, John?” The non sequitur has John blinking, caught off guard by Arthur for what must be the millionth time. Never can get a proper read on him, always fumbling with who Arthur Morgan is. Sometimes John thinks he’s found the answer, but Arthur always changes up on him last minute, throws him back into freefall. “Know you like red.”

With a loose flick of his wrist, index and middle finger extended and pointing, Arthur loosely indicates John's soiled red shirt on the ground, and the maroon strip of cloth around John's throat, masking his noose scar.

He doesn’t say anything, not wanting to give Arthur more rope to hang him with in case this takes a turn towards the cruel. Arthur’s not a bad man, but he likes a good joke, even a mean one, and, God, wouldn’t it be right hilarious to string John Marston along like this and then tell everyone back at camp?

When he can manage between guffaws, of course.

The question hadn’t been rhetorical, but Arthur ends up answering it himself. He makes a show of pulling out garments even John hadn’t fished out, delving past the dark toned fall dresses in the forefront and unearthing some of the pastels of spring from the very back. Lighter wear dresses, casual without the corsets that can accompany them. Arthur considers something wispy and pale, bringing it out of its hiding spot and into the candlelight so he can see the finer details embroidered into its bosom and sleeves.

“Ar...Arthur, this ain’t funny. I’m just gonna go get a shirt from -”

“Am I laughing, John?” There’s something red in his hands, now, close to what John would describe as crimson. Dark as blood, heavier than its pale predecessor, which now hangs limply out of a drawer.

John can't help but feel he's breaking something little by little with this all, something between them worth more than a promise to himself or his stupid heart, but whether it's going shatter apart beneath its weight or crack open to something beautiful and New, he's unsure.

Not sure he wants to find out, either.

It's a little darker than John usually goes for, on working girls or for clothing for himself, though he knows it’s one of Dutch’s favorite shades. Beautiful, from what John can tell.

He’s not actually sure he’s seeing right. Blinking doesn’t seem to help, and he longs to rub his eyes to check and make sure he's seeing what he thinks he's seeing. He doesn’t want to give Arthur the satisfaction if it turns out to be a rouse, but John can already feel himself circling the bait Arthur’s plopped in front of him. Knows he’s gonna get it caught in his lip and start thrashing as Arthur laughs and reels him in.

Shit, he might be having a fit here and now. Succumbing to alcohol poisoning or a third, mystery guard bludgeoning him over the head, taking John unawares. Dreaming up all of this before he gives up the ghost, something Sweet and Good before he dies like a God damn fool.

But Arthur’s voice is level, firm, and the garment in his hands looks real and present and _beautiful_ in the low light as Arthur drags it out into the space between them, no more pussyfooting around.

“Say the word, tell me I’m - I’m misreadin’ this, John. We never speak of this again, and I’ll…” Arthur licks his lips, eyes lowered to the dress in his hands. There’s crushed velvet along the bodice and black filigree embroidered coursing throughout it like mineral veining. Its skirt is long and has at least two layers, sheer gauzy maroon atop a thicker, warmer black skirt. Flowy but somehow tight looking, like if John were to slip it on it would restrict his movements, shortening his stride to a third, a quarter.

Arthur’s running his hands over the patterning with slow, calm sweeps. They look impossibly large atop the garment, in a way John’s not sure his’ll ever come close. “I’ll give you my cut from tonight, and bunk up somewhere else from now on. I’ll never breathe a word of this, so long as you don’t.”

“I don’t want that,” John says quickly, somehow managing to get the words out around his rabbit quick heart thundering in his throat. Whether it’s the coolness of the fall air on his bare skin or the thought of this actually happening to him, John’s not sure - maybe it’s both - but his skin is pinched tight and awash in goosebumps.

Arthur’s eyes are so God damn blue when he finally looks up at John.

“What do you want, John? Y’seen where I’m at, y’gotta...y’gotta tell me where you are.” He’s going to wrinkle the dress if he squeezes it in his hands any harder. Mar the velvet with his nails if they dig any deeper, add his own filigree to its face. “Tell me if I messed this up. Gotta way of doin’ that, you can just ask -”

“Don’t say her name,” John hisses. His throat clicks when he swallows. It takes every ounce of bodily control in his arsenal to keep from swaying as he takes a halting step towards Arthur.

Against Arthur’s sun tanned, muscled forearm, John’s hand looks pale and waifish where it bracelets high on Arthur’s wrist. It closes most of the way around, but not entirely.

And, God, against the richness of that dress.

“You’re not misreadin’, but I’m - I’m wonderin’ if I fell through the floor, or - or tumbled down the stairs?” John says. Giddy, nervous energy causes his words to pop sharply like they hadn’t in years. “Maybe didn’t do a good enough job on the guards because this is surreal. Half expected you to kick my ass if I ever worked up the nerve to - or, hell, at least make it clear that this won’t ever happen, and that I disgust you - mph.”

John really, really hates when Arthur interrupts him, but maybe he hates being interrupted with a kiss a little less.

Okay, a lot less.

It’s far from the first time he’s ever kissed someone, but the way Arthur pulls him in tight and grips his jaw, angling his head back and quickly taking total control of the whole thing, sets it far, far apart from the other timid and tackless ventures with young, inexperienced farm hands, and working girls paid to spread their legs, and only use their mouths for loftier goals. There’s experience there, and technique. Arthur kisses him so soundly John has to steady himself by gripping Arthur’s forearms. His legs suddenly feel like they won’t support him, knees knocking together as Arthur bites at John’s lower lip before introducing his tongue into his mouth.

It’s just a kiss, and John’s already making needy, wounded sounds.

He’d be embarrassed if he was given the time to stop and think about it, but with Arthur kissing him for everything he’s worth, there’s no room inside his skull for anything but _Arthur, Arthur, Arthur, more, more, more._

They kiss until John’s lightheaded and Arthur is breathing heavily from his nose. John’d sooner pass out than willfully end this, and he makes his displeasure known with a whine as he chases Arthur’s lips. Arthur just chuffs a low, rumbling laugh, kisses him one more time, and pulls away far enough to press his forehead to John’s. His hands are steady on John’s waist and neck, the thumb at the base of John’s throat sweeping across his clavicle, but the great, heaving gulps of air he desperately pulls into his lungs are shaky and so, so very affected.

“Y’piss me off, John. Infuriate me, irritate me, scare the hell outta me sometimes. Frighten me, which accordin’ to Hosea is a different beast entirely, and you - you make me do ‘nd feel a lotta things, John, but disgust me? That ain’t somethin’ I associate with you ‘less you haven’t bathed in a hot minute.”

The words tingle against John’s lips, and when he swallows shakily he swears he can taste them, the sincerity of Arthur’s words, the carefully and thoughtfully given admission. The reciprocated sweetness of Arthur’s longing.

“Ain’t you supposed to be wooin’ me? Seein’ as you want me to get into that dress ‘nd all,” John teases. They’re too close together to be able to focus on how Arthur’s eyes crinkle when he laughs, handsome gifts from the sun and aging instead of blighting curses, but John’s damn near memorized that particular visage. Sees it sometimes in his head when he jerks off at night, Arthur’s eyes smiling at him.

“Got you half naked already, far as I see it. Only reason I’d wanna put more clothin’ on you is because I know you’d want it. And you’d want me to take it off you, too.” The skin of Arthur’s hand burns where it tentatively touches John’s bare hip. His fingers tighten against John almost instantly, like Arthur can’t help it, and lick fire across him as Arthur’s hand slowly slides to the small of John’s back.

His hand sits heavily there for a heartbeat, two, before Arthur gingerly walks John forward into Arthur’s space, until they’re pressed together tightly from nose to toe. Then it slowly sweeps down, and grabs a handful of John’s ass.

“Could leave it on you, I guess,” Arthur muses, head cocking to and fro as he makes a show of theatrically considering his options. “Set you in my lap. Might hafta rip the sides of it, though. Let you straddle me.”

Arthur licks his lips. “Ride me, even.”

High and in the back of his throat, John whines. He’s on his tiptoes in his boots as Arthur’s hand kneads at his ass, toes curling and uncurling as he shifts his weight. The very real threat of getting a foot cramp means nothing as he rocks back into Arthur’s hand. He’d endure worse to get this.

“Gonna put it on? Give us a show.” He kisses John softly, just a press of lip to lip. Gentle and careful and so God damn considerate, like John really is some delicate flower, some Southern belle who’d wilt in the heat that low, husky voice promises.

The hand against his throat, though, that squeezes. Just a fleeting, fluttering thing, there and gone, but it speaks to a whole different assumption about what John’s made of. He can’t decide what he wants more, Arthur’s softness or his roughness. For Arthur to treat him like glass or for him to throw John down and just _take_.

“Clock’s tickin’, Johnny. Would rather spend the remainder of our night doin’ somethin’ better than mullin’ it all over.”

John wants to put it on, for himself and for Arthur. Doesn’t stop him from being nervous. From biting his lip even as Arthur kisses him again, the urgency of it mounting.

“Sit on the bed and...and turn around,” John instructs. Regretfully he steps out of Arthur’s embrace, easing the dress from Arthur’s hand before he goes. Tucks it behind himself like he had with the journal. He points behind and away from him for good measure, not even sure if he’s correctly targeting the bed.

For a moment, Arthur opens his mouth, a comment primed and ready on his tongue. He must rethink it because soon he’s nodding and complying, easily sidestepping John and making his way to the bed which John was _not_ properly indicating.

He sits on the far side of it, facing the French doors leading out to the balcony.

For all his interest in them, John’s never actually worn one of these things before. He’s had sex with a few working girls who probably would’ve let him try theirs on if he asked, even had one jokingly offer to trade outfits with him when he picked up her bodice in the dim by accident.

Is he supposed to slip it over his head, or step into it?

Does he need to remove everything else, first? Surely that would look too bulky and stupid if he left his jeans and gunbelt on.

What if it doesn’t fit?

John hides the shaking of his hands in the fabric of the dress as he holds it out to consider it. It really is beautiful, and he wonders if the daughter and her mother handfashioned it or if it was bought in Saint Denis. It’s good quality, handsomely made, nary an imperfection in sight. It’d be too rich for John’s blood even if he were a woman with the means for something this nice, but he’s going to stop second guessing himself and put it on, dammit.

Gonna put it on and go climb in Arthur’s lap.

Nodding, John sets the dress down gingerly on the nearby dresser. It takes him a few tries to remove his gunbelt and undo his pants’ belt, but soon they’re pooling at his ankles, trapping him within his boots. He should’ve removed them first. It’s an easy situation to rectify, even if it has him hopping like some stupid hare dodging bullets in his attempt to remove them without falling over.

Arthur snorts at the ruckus, but dutifully remains facing the balcony.

After a moment of consideration, John steps out of his undergarments, too. He vaguely remembers Ms. Grimshaw saying something about _silhouettes_ and what have you when wearing fine clothing, and that not having the right underpieces could make or break an outfit. John doesn’t have any proper lady’s undergarments, and while he might be fixing to wear this woman’s dress he’s not going to go rifling about the drawers for her underbits.

The room is even cooler without a stitch of clothing on. He shivers hard, teeth chattering. The skin that’d previously had Arthur’s heavy hands on them sting in the absence of his touch. He wants to get warm again, and then have Arthur heat him up further, burn him alive, scorch him with those big hands, that skillful tongue.

He thinks about that kiss and how badly he wants another, and another, as many as Arthur will give him, as he slips the dress over his head.

It makes more sense this way, John tells himself as he carefully feeds his arms through the sleeves. If it’s a little snug across his shoulders and chest, he’ll have an easier time encouraging it downward than he’d have pulling and situating it upward.

Once his arms are in it, John works the bodice down and lets the skirt fall. It swishes along the tops of his bare feet, the fabric catching between his thighs and along his mostly soft cock as he shifts his body around to learn the feel. It’s somehow both tight and loose at the same time, and John was right in assuming it’d restrict his movements without having the skirt ripped up the side.

Even without breasts to fill the bodice, the feeling of it is indescribable.

“Y’about done over there, Princess?” John’s cheeks heat to the approximate color of the dress, and he glares daggers at Arthur’s back even as his gut begins to warm in earnest. “Gonna have company if you take much longer, and now’s as good a time as any t’tell ya I don’t much like sharing.”

“You talk too damn much,” John snipes. He’s suddenly uncertain about showing Arthur, even as his baser thoughts rage and wail against his stupid fears.

“And you, as usual, take twice as long to complete a simple task as it’d take anyone else.” Again, there’s no heat in his words. It’s almost like he’s trying to soothe John’s nerves by bringing them somewhere more familiar.

John’s not too proud to admit that it works on him. Soon he’s taking slow steps towards the bed. His gait is different in the dress, and it’s not even just because of the tightness of the skirt. He feels different in it, even with his too broad shoulders and the empty parts of the bodice and the lacework undone.

Feminine, pretty, and as soon as he locks eyes with Arthur and hears him shakily exhale like someone walloped him good and he has to breathe through the pain, _desirable._

“Would y’look at you, sweetness.” There’s no mistaking the reverence in Arthur’s tone. His eyes shine in the moonlight washing into the room through the French doors. It bathes his hand in white light as he extends it out for John to take. As soon as John’s hand is in his, he squeezes and pulls him in closer. “Want me to, uh...do up the laces?”

Not trusting his voice, John nods his head and squeezes Arthur’s hand before turning around.

Arthur doesn’t pull the laces very tight. John’s seen some of the women in camp lose their breath as their lacings are done up, and they don’t recover it fully even after they’ve adjusted. Arthur simply pulls the bodice tight enough that it’s form fitting and more flattering than before.

The change in pressure against his ribs is exhilarating. Delicious and strange and new. He can’t stop smoothing his hands down the illusion of fuller hips. The crushed velvet is almost painfully soft against his fingers.

“Yeah? S’good?” He can practically feel Arthur’s gaze on his back, trailing down it to admire his handiwork. Before John can answer, can beg Arthur to touch him again, Arthur’s reading his mind and standing up quickly to fuse their body’s together, Arthur’s front to John’s back. He fixes his mouth to John’s throat as he embraces him from behind, his right arm sweeping around John’s waist and bunching in the fabric of his skirt, subsequently pushing John back into Arthur’s growing arousal.

His left hand snakes up across John’s chest, up, up, up, and seats itself draped across John’s throat. His Adam’s apple knocks Arthur’s thumb as John moans and offers Arthur more skin to worry with his lips and teeth.

John’s not sure where to put his hands when he wants them to be everywhere at once. In Arthur’s hair, encouraging him to suck harder along his throat. On top of the hand bunched in John’s skirt, alternating between clenching and unclenching Arthur's grip, alternating between soft cotton and warm, dry skin. Lead it along John's hip, or get it to hike up John's skirt enough to slip his hand beneath and Between.

Maybe he’ll sweep it around Arthur’s back, pull him even closer.

Grab his ass, maybe. Push that growing hardness right where John wants it.

He’s a little dizzy with the possibilities, but even then John has enough of his wits together to make out what Arthur’s rumbling to him between biting kisses along his throat and jaw.

“Beautiful. Gonna mess you up good and proper, sweetness. Y’don’t know what you do to me.”

“Show me,” John breathes, “show me, Arthur.”

It takes some careful orchestration, but Arthur gets them in the bed how he wants them: Arthur sat up against the wrought iron headboard, long, thick legs, now bootless, stretched out in front of him with John seated astride him. They have to take care not to damage the skirt to get John where Arthur wants him, kissing and shushing his irritated noises as the tightness of the skirt gives them trouble. He just slips it further and further up John’s waist until John can sit fully against Arthur’s crotch, then allows it to fan out across their laps, hiding both their arousals.

He must have some prior experience here. Why wouldn’t he? Women fawn after Arthur, even with that _aw shucks_ act he sometimes puts on. Acting like he’s not the most handsome man John’s ever seen, like he’s not the only man that John’s ever brought himself off to with his name on his lips.

Men probably trip over themselves for him, too. John knows he does. His thighs tighten around Arthur’s waist at just the thought of the other men who’ve come to know Arthur’s body before John got his chance.

John kisses Arthur hard and begins working on the buttons of his shirt. There’s too fucking many of them, suddenly, stupid little pale circles keeping him too far away from a chest John’s seen countless times but never been allowed to touch like he’s dreamed. He should be running his fingers through Arthur’s chest hair, or playing with his nipples, not _this._

He’s moving to just...rip the shirt open when Arthur grabs both of his wrists, pulling John’s hands away before John’d even caught them moving.

“Y’rip my shirt, now, I ain’t puttin’ a dress on,” Arthur warns. His hips buck upward, purposefully jostling John. He smirks as John grunts quietly, involuntary, and tightens his thighs around Arthur as payback.

“Bet you’d look good in one, _pretty boy._ Wanna put you in blue, though,” John returns.

It’s Arthur’s turn to groan. He drops John’s wrists in favor of fisting a hand in the bunched up skirt at John’s ass, lifting his hips again as he presses John’s body down, but instead of bucking Arthur begins rolling them upward.

“Good boy,” breathed against John’s temple as John skillfully rides through the undulations. There’s a bareback joke on the tip of John’s tongue he’d make if he could collect his wits enough to string it together, but this new development has Arthur’s clothed cock rubbing directly against John’s bare ass, and _God_ he wants.

He abandons Arthur’s shirt for now, letting his hands wander down the space between their writhing bodies to get at Arthur’s belt clasp.

All of Arthur’s belt clasps, Jesus Christ he’s wearing so many bits and fucking bobs.

Amused, Arthur swiftly finishes unbuttoning his shirt and meets John’s fumbling, eager fingers on the buckle of his gunbelt. After a few moments of allowing John his attempts, Arthur gently knocks the trembling fingers away and replaces them with his own. His movements are practiced, even and swift, as Arthur undoes his own belt and trouser closure.

When he pops the first button, John can see previously hidden skin, paler than the skin of Arthur’s toned, suntanned abdomen.

There’s a trail of hair beginning at Arthur’s belly button and sweeping downward. The popping of the second button has it fanning out thicker and darker.

John’s breathing heavily as Arthur pops the third and final closure, his forehead propped up on Arthur’s shoulder so he can watch the unveiling. He can see the base of Arthur’s cock where it sits in a thatch of dark blonde pubic hair, steadily hardening in the confines of Arthur’s pants. Just the root of it looks thick and heavy, and while it’s too dark and close to cleanly make out the thickening imprint pressed against Arthur’s thigh, he looks as endowed as his stature always promised.

“That what you want?” Arthur drawls, leading John’s sweaty hand and pressing it against his bulge. He hisses between teeth as John presses the heel a touch harder against where he believes the head is. There’s the faintest trace of dampness blooming against John’s palm. “Gotta use your words, Johnny. Can’t take backseat to this, gotta let me know where you are.”

“Yeah,” John whispers, throat clicking. He licks his lips once, twice, but they don’t seem to get any wetter. Arthur’s eyes follow his tongue as it makes its passes, hungry and attentive. “Want it. Want all of it.”

“C’mon, tell me. Be a good boy, gimme some - some direction.” Arthur’s hands sweep up the outside of John’s thighs, applying pressure as they climb to his hips.

He wants to rut against Arthur. Get that cock in his mouth. Get it _inside_ him. Maybe try for all of that, in that order, mark everything off the list, greedy and fearful he might not get another chance.

He doesn’t say anything, the choices flashing lightning bright in his head. Just leans forward and kisses Arthur, rubbing him through his trousers with one hand while the other sweeps up the toned expanse of Arthur’s abdomen.

Arthur’s built like an ox, wide and strong and so God damn big.

Still squeaks like a startled rabbit when John tweaks his nipple.

“Little shit,” Arthur hisses. It’s his turn to coax a sound from John as his hands quickly dive back around John’s dress and each grab a handful of his ass. “Good boys don’t -”

“Girl,” John says suddenly. Emboldened by liquor and finally, _finally_ getting what he wants, it doesn’t register that that might be a touch too far outside joking until Arthur stills. The panic begins flooding in, taking up all of the space in his lungs and making it hard to breathe around the acrid, old perfume taste of it. “I, uh, shit -”

He can’t have ruined this already, he can’t -

“Girl.” Experimental, weighing the word in his mouth. He’s called John it before but always as a joke, and never in all that time considered that John might like that for real. Arthur makes a show of rolling the word around on his tongue, getting a taste for it. “Yeah? You’d like that? Gon’ be my good girl, John?”

Just while in the dress, just - it’s all too confusing to think of in the heat of the moment, brain foggy with lust. John just nods. Shyly presses his lips against Arthur’s, virginal, sweet. Lets his fingers flutter along his clothed shaft, dancing up and back until they can pet lightly against the root, a sharper, headier note.

“Christ.” Pressed against John’s temple, heavy breaths ruffling his hair. Arthur’s rolling his hips rhythmically into John’s grip, chomping at the bit to do more, to _take_ , but tensed to prevent that, like John’s some delicate lady. The grip on John’s ass has even lessened, though now Arthur’s hands have begun petting him. “Gotta - gotta tell me what y’want, Princess. What y’need. Gonna give it to you if you’re good.”

He’d meant it when he said all of it. All of it, any of it, whatever Arthur’s willing to give him.

Deciding to randomly pick something, anything, John says, “Mouth.”

It’s unclear to even himself what he meant by that - if he wanted to kiss more, or use his mouth on Arthur - but Arthur takes the word and runs with it. He urges John onto his back as carefully as he can, the dress already being hiked up around John’s waist the only saving grace for its stitchwork as Arthur insinuates himself bodily between John’s spread legs.

John watches his face as Arthur studies the newly bared skin of John’s abdomen and groin. There’s no ridicule or scrutiny in Arthur’s gaze, just heat and want scorching along John’s skinny thighs, his slim hips. Usually he’d try to hide, to shield himself and as much of his insecurities as he could get away with - but Arthur pursued him, in the end.

There’s something Arthur wants and, stupid as it might be, it’s looking like that something is John.

Just John, dress or no dress.

“Beautiful,” Arthur breathes. His hands looks massive against John’s thighs. They start low, right above John’s knees, and rub circles steadily upward. They never leave John’s skin, not even when John’s breath hitches and he spreads his legs further. He can feel the cool night air against his sac, a shivery graze alongside the heat of Arthur’s gaze. “Y’even blush all the way down here, you know that? Bet you’re redder’n the dress beneath it.”

“Shut up.” He turns his head on the mattress and worries his lip between his teeth as Arthur’s hands steadily continue their ascent. His left thumb graces the seam of John’s balls with such care, such delicate pressure, though he just as well might’ve punched him in the solar plexus for how all of the air rushes out of John’s lungs in a single, painful exhale. He can feel his balls draw up from even the simplest of grazes, too much and not enough already. When they lower again, both of Arthur’s thumbs are there waiting.

“‘cept here, of course. Pinkest pink I ever seen.” John has no time to repeat himself. The words are stuck in his throat, trapped alongside a moan, as Arthur snaps forward and pulls one of John’s balls into his mouth. As Arthur’s mouth works, his hands sweep lower, thumb pressing along John’s taint.

John’s back bows, and he bites his lip so savagely he actually breaks the skin. The iron tang of his own blood is fleeting, only just enough to alert John of it having been shed. Inconsequential when compared to the warm, wet suction of the mouth working on him, sweeping from the right ball to its twin to bestow the same attention onto it.

It’s then that Arthur’s hands break away from their synchronicity. The left continues further between John’s legs, the tips of his index and middle fingers just inches away from the cleft of John’s ass. Thumb again petting against John’s taint, making John’s skin goosebump. The right creeps upward, circling lowly on the root of John’s cock and pulling it upright, away from where it’d begun brushing against the ridge of Arthur’s forehead. The corkscrewing that damnable hand does makes the muscles in John’s stomach tense up, half from pleasure, half from the effort it takes to keep from moving into Arthur’s touch.

God, away from Arthur’s touch.

He wants it all, and it’s all so much.

This isn’t what he aimlessly asked for, probably not something John would prioritize, but it feels good. Arthur feels good, mouth and hands both so talented as they work in harmony, pressing against that sweet spot beneath his perineum just as Arthur tightens his grip and twists on the upstroke. He hasn’t even moved his mouth from John’s sac and -

“Oh. Oh, God. Arthur - fuck, what’re you - _shit._ ”

Squeaky and disbelieving. His arms pinwheel for a moment as he’s suddenly moved, repositioned like a doll. They fist in the sheets to keep from knotting in Arthur’s hair, though whether he’d push Arthur closer or yank him away, John hasn’t readily decided. John’s half curled in on himself with Arthur’s flattened tongue making passes over his hole before he knows it, and this _really_ isn’t something John would’ve asked for. Wouldn’t have even known it was on the table, if he’s being honest.

That’s Arthur for you. Tell you he wants you to make the decision, then takes its bare bones and does what he thinks is best. It feels - weird, though. Good weird. Tingly. John’s trying his best not to wriggle into the strangeness of it, to not push any more of himself onto that wicked tongue even as Arthur begins to apply pressure to the center of him every other lick.

He’s had sex with men before, had fingers and cocks and some...unsavory things inside of himself, but never a _tongue_.

God, John’s suddenly, painfully glad he’d bathed as an act of petulance.

The tip of Arthur’s tongue breaching him in tandem with that fucking _misfit hand_ on John’s cock has him leaking, has him worrying the already chewed to hell jut of his lower lip to keep from wailing, waking up the knocked out guards.

John gives an experimental rock of his hips down onto Arthur’s mouth, and is rewarded with a hungry sound, pressed to the center of him. If it had tingled before it’s nothing compared to those vibrations against the most sensitive part of him. Reflexively John clamps his thighs tight, managing not to crush Arthur’s head by calming himself only at the last moment.

There’s wetness coating the back of John’s thighs. He can feel the damp when the wind blows into the room, ghosting cooly along his superheated skin. The bedsheets stick to John everywhere he’s bare.

A laugh bubbles out of him at the thought of their mark’s daughter coming back to two sheepish guards, no valuables, and a sweat-streaked mattress with two sets of bodily fluids on it.

Arthur nips at his lower thigh, penance for his mind wandering.

“Y’gonna share with the class, _girlie?_ Ain’t very polite to not pay attention while a feller’s eatin’ you out. Give ‘im the wrong impression,” Arthur scolds. His face is mostly obscured by the angle and the bunched up poof of John’s dress, but John can see the wicked amusement in Arthur’s eyes, and a touch of Arthur’s own saliva smeared on his cheeks.

“That what you’re doin’?” John asks. He shifts his legs when Arthur nips him again and squeezes the base of his cock. “Never, uh. Never had that done before.”

“Feel good?” The heat in Arthur’s eyes shifting just left of center as Arthur assesses whether he made the right move or not. He looks poised to do whatever John suggests next, to go back to town with his mouth or reroute his course, just say the word. “Just, uh...thought I’d start gettin’ you ready. If you wanna, that is. Don’t gotta.”

For all his bravado, being faced with the reality that he’s going to get fucked by Arthur Morgan has him a little nervous. He knows that Arthur would stop if he asked. Might huff at him, call him a tease once, but he wouldn’t mean it, would just be saving face as they righted themselves and prepared to leave. It’s what makes Arthur different from so many of John’s other partners, his genuine desire to please. Never viewing his pleasure as greater than his bedmate’s.

Valuing John as more than just a warm place to stick his dick.

“Wanna. S’good, Arthur. Get - get me ready.”

The sound Arthur makes is more animal than man, low down in his chest, a beast climbing out from the depths of him. He laps at John with renewed vigor, sloppy and wet and so toe-curlingly good John can’t resist weaving a hand into Arthur’s hair any longer. He fists the other into his own, twisting hair around his fingers and pulling as he moans. Hips lifting of their own accord, almost like he’s trying to escape the sharp sweetness of Arthur’s tongue, but he doesn’t get far before Arthur’s arm is yanking him back down and against his mouth.

Arthur’s index finger works its way inside him easily, aided by the slickness of Arthur’s tongue. Even with saliva to work with, John won’t be able to take more than this without something slicker. His finger’s so God damn _large_ , nowhere near as large as that cock John hasn’t even been able to _see_ yet. Arthur lets him acclimatize to the intrusion, doing little more than idly petting along John’s walls with the pad of his finger for several moments, before he begins steadily working that finger in and out.

His mouth moves north now, pressing open mouth kisses against John’s thigh, until he gets to where his grip is loosely tugging at John’s cock. Those swollen lips take the place of his hand, still lightly kissing even as he scales upward. John’s leaking steadily now, dribbling down the side of his own cock.

The sight of that slickness being lapped away by Arthur’s warm, wet tongue is going to be seared into his memory for the rest of his _life._

“Arthur,” John moans, fingers scritching at Arthur’s scalp as that mouth finally makes its way to the crown of his cock. True to form, Arthur goes from simple, flirting touches to all or nothing, descending quickly upon him until John’s cockhead is bumping against the back of his throat. It’s a little too dry, a little too fast, but Arthur’s obviously done all of this before. Before John can hiss, mention anything about dryness, Arthur is pulling up and licking wetly up the side of his cock, tongue swirling damp and glorious along John’s most prominent vein.

That finger inside of him shifts, crooks just a little experimentally. Arthur pushes it in harder, deeper, and drags it on the withdraw, petting hard along John’s insides until his stomach is fluttering and his leg is kicking out along the sheets without thought. Luckily he misses Arthur by a few inches, his big toe just barely grazing along his stomach, but _God_.

He’s so fucking warm. Tingly. At once rocking into Arthur’s mouth and fucking _away._

It’s embarrassing how quickly Arthur gets to him, that talented mouth to rut into and that thick finger to fuck himself on. He’d be mortified if he didn’t know his body well enough that he’d be ready for round two quick as a shot, but he wants to impress Arthur. Make Arthur want him again, and again, not earn quickdraw jokes everyone joins in on without knowing how on the money they all are.

“Arthur,” John moans again, tugging Arthur’s hair a little this time. “Gonna - gonna. Shit, I’m gonna come if you keep -”

Arthur _pops!_ off his cock, loud and wet in the dim. John’s cockhead smears against his cheekbone as Arthur glares at him. “What do you think I’m down here for? I want you to. Always…” Coughing as he clears his throat, dropping John’s gaze. “Always best to get your lady off once before, right?”

Those eyes flip back up to John’s, the heat in them so all encompassing John swears it boils his blood beneath his skin. Might not even need Arthur’s mouth to come when he talks like that. John clenches hard around Arthur’s finger and whimpers quietly.

Before Arthur takes him back into his mouth, he chuffs a laugh and says, “Want you boneless when I fuck you, sweetness.”

Arthur sucks with a vengeance, cheeks visibly hollowed as he pulls upward, paying close attention to John’s cockhead. He swirls his tongue around the slit, collecting the precome steadily leaking out of him in higher and higher volume.

Up and down, up and down, driving into John with one finger inside and another exploring his rim.

John flexes his abdominal muscles, half curled in on himself again, and comes with eyes screwed shut and his mouth open on a wordless wail. He moves to slump, fall back to the bed like a marionette with its strings all cut and severed, momentarily uncaring if his slight weight crushes Arthur. He needn’t worry about it, though. Arthur’s already helping him back to the mattress even as he rises to his knees between John’s useless, sweaty legs.

He’s taken his cock out sometime during _getting John ready_. It stands swollen and flushed with blood, tight against the cut plains of Arthur’s lower abs. The knowledge that just eating John out was enough to make Arthur touch himself makes John fight the warm looseness of a good orgasm.

He’s gotta get up, gotta get Arthur _in_ , get that beautiful cock inside and he can have a second, even better orgasm, Jesus, Mary and Joseph.

With a loose grip, Arthur works himself while John blearily watches. He swats John’s coltish, restless legs down without even looking away from John’s face.

“Where y’goin’ now, hm?” Arthur asks.

John glares, kitten weak and tingly and so, so greedy. He’s going to need a minute to build up enough energy to try to stand again. “We need oil. Gun, or - or pomade, or -”

Arthur smirks as he pats his front left pocket. Something metal _tnks!_ as his fingers strike it, even through the denim. “Came prepared. Or, gonna come prepared, I promise you.”

When’d he do that? The question must read clearly on John’s face, because Arthur’s laughing at him even as he repositions John’s legs with the hand not still idly fondling his cock.

“Waitin’ for Cinderella to get ready for the ball, had a second to snatch this here tin from my bag. Never gonna use it for my hair, don’t know why I carry the damn thing around - might as well put it to good use plowin’ you like a field, right?” That wicked smile with its fishhook corners, sunk all the way into the meat of John. Arthur’s face is still damp and his forehead is dotted with sweat, hair beginning to curl at the ends, at once the Devil himself and one of God’s own angels.

Well, maybe not _God_ God. He’s still planning to fuck John, after all.

“You’re -” A bastard. So good to me. Simultaneously the best and worst thing in John’s life. Definitely the death of him, no matter how else you split it. “You talk too fuckin’ much.”

Arthur’s cock bobs as he releases it to fetch the pomade. The sound the lid makes as it’s unscrewed pairs well with Arthur’s taunting little tongue clicks, _tsk tsk tsk_.

“Here I was,” he says, shaking his head in mock disbelief, even as he tosses the tin lid to the side and scoops out a healthy dollop of pine scented pomade with two fingers. “Thinkin’ I was fixin’ to bed a lady -”

“You bed _ladies_ with a mouth like that?” John deadpans, nose full of woodsy perfume, eyes locked on Arthur’s hand as he warms the slick between his fingertips.

“Naw, course not,” Arthur hums, flicking his hair out of his eyes as he leans forward and, easy as you please, slots two fingers inside John. He grins as John’s mouth falls open and his eyes flutter shut, the image of sharp white teeth and plush pink lips all cocksure and devilish burnt onto the backs of John’s eyelids as he begins to fuck into him with punishing force. “I bed whores with this mouth. That what you want, Princess?”

“Uh.” More punched out than moaned, John claws at the bedsheets again. He’s not sure which Arthur he wants, this devil may care, drill you like there’s oil Arthur, or the tentative, slow, sweet Arthur who’d called him beautiful and asked what _he_ wanted.

White hat, black hat.

Wants them both, he decides, ever the greedy child taking more than offered. Likes how he pendulum swings between rough and painfully gentle, a rendition of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde John would’ve paid attention to had Dutch explained the tale like this.

A non answer is just as much an answer as an outright choice. John forces his eyes to open and his vision to clear so he can lock eyes with Arthur. He rocks his hips down onto Arthur’s fingers, breathing through the pleasure. Licks his dry, bitten lips, and laughs when they begin mirroring Arthur’s own grin.

“Uh huh,” John moans, loud and freely. He spreads his legs as far as they’ll go, and hikes up his skirt so he can better see Arthur’s hand disappear between his thighs. Two of Arthur’s fingers thrusting and scissoring inside of him is enough to make John’s toes curl.

John watches Arthur watch him. There’s more sweat building along Arthur’s forehead, and now it dots along Arthur’s exposed chest. He wants to taste them, sit up and fix his mouth to each and every drop Arthur exudes while he fucks John with relentless thrusts of his fingers.

“What do y’think? Two fingers, or three?” Arthur asks. His fingers move in and out of John suddenly slower now. Against his rim, John can feel the third finger ghosting along his skin, asking for entrance.

“Two. Want it now,” John says. He wants a little of the ache that comes with accommodating the stretch, a little something to remember this by that John can catalogue alongside the marks on his throat and thighs.

“Don’t wanna hurt you.” His expression softens momentarily, breaking character to show how Arthur genuinely cares.

Valiantly, John’s cock twitches as the fingerpad of the third finger breaches him alongside the first two. He holds his breath as they slip inside him, only to loose it in a rough exhale as all three fingertips graze along his prostate.

“Not gonna. Trust you, Arthur. C’mon, I’ve been good, ain’t I? Give your - your girl what she wants.” John rolls his hips downward, seeking more friction, more contact, _more._

While still on his knees, Arthur shimmies forward until the heft of his cock obscures his thrusting fingers from sight. He’s still got his pants on, rucked down his calves. They restrict his movement almost like the skirt had restricted John’s. He manages with the binding gracefully. Doesn’t even let on that he’s aware of it, all of his focus on John’s face as Arthur gropes to the side of the mattress with his unoccupied hand. His eyes remain locked with John’s as he scoops out more pomade. Even as he coats himself in slick, his fingers never lose their rhythm inside John.

John reaches out to help Arthur. The pomade is rapidly warming against Arthur’s heated skin. It makes the already velvety skin of his shaft silky and smooth as Arthur wraps his hand around John’s and leads him through jerking him off. His hips snap into the grip of John’s fist at the same pace as his fingers, but his breathing is erratic, winded and through his slack-jawed mouth.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” John begs, his own breathing growing shallow and quick. He’s almost to full hardness again just from Arthur’s fingers and the knowledge that soon, that cock will be replacing them. “Please, Arthur. I - I need it.”

Arthur’s eyes flutter shut for a moment. He licks his lips, savoring the words. “Should see yourself, Princess. Beg so pretty.”

“Arthur -”

“Sh, sh. Gonna give you what y’need.” The pomade smudges against John’s lower thigh as Arthur lifts his leg and encourages it to wrap around Arthur’s hips. John doesn’t need to be told to mirror the action with the other leg. Arthur rewards him with a low _good girl_ as he slides forward once more and finally, _finally_ removes his fingers.

John clenches at the loss, but even as he laments the feeling, Arthur’s giving himself another cursory stroke before lining himself up where John is loosened and welcoming. He exhales slowly as Arthur pushes inside, feeding John centimeter by centimeter until John’s sure that’s it, he can’t take anymore. His thighs tremble, and try as he might he can’t keep his eyes open. Stars burst against the black of his eyelids. He can taste the pine of the pomade in the air, stronger than the whiskey they’d both drank.

“There,” Arthur hums, seated fully inside. Like before with his single finger, Arthur gives John a moment to adjust, but the change in girth and length is so apparent John’s not sure he’s ever _going_ to fully adjust. He’s always going to be full and heavy where their bodies meet, always going to punch the air from his lungs and shoot stars against the backdrop of his eyes. “You’re doing so good for me.”

“Uh huh.” Unlike before, John’s voice wavers this time, light and floaty. When he finally gets his eyes to open again, he can see Arthur still as a statue, just watching him again. Waiting for John to tell him he’s ready. “Arthur. _Arthur._ I - I -”

“Yeah?” Slowly, Arthur begins to drape his upper half atop John. His lower half stays mostly stationary, but even the slightest movement of his cock inside John has him moaning softly in encouragement. “S’good? Want it to be good for you.”

“S’good,” John whimpers. Experimentally, John pulls his hips up a few inches and drops back down, fucking himself easily. Arthur gives another long, wounded exhale, fingers tightening in John’s legs, so John does it again, a little faster this time. He does it a few more times, growing faster and more frantic as he moves, but it’s not enough. He doesn’t hide his mounting frustration as he thrashes his head and clenches around Arthur to get some, _any_ true reaction. “Could - could be better.”

Arthur laughs against John’s throat once he’s positioned himself the way he wants, all of his weight bearing John down against the mattress, surrounded. Probably ruining some of the more delicate material of the dress with sweat. “I can do better.”

John’s fixing to beg him to _show him_ when Arthur does just that, snapping his hips forward. He knocks the air out of John’s lungs and the words from his throat as he begins to work out a rhythm, faster and deeper than he could achieve with his fingers. It’s all John can do to hold on, to reap what he sowed, to let Arthur give them both pleasure as he sees fit and just take it. He moves his hips like a well oiled machine, never breaking stride. He mouths aimlessly at John’s throat as he fucks him, lips catching on the almost-velvet material of John’s ribbon scarf. Once or twice on the warped, puckered skin of John’s scar, but if he realizes that’s what he’s touching, he doesn’t show it.

Even with the patio door open and the cool fall air pouring in, John’s dappled with sweat. He can feel dampness in the armpits of the dress. His legs slide where they rest bracketed high around Arthur’s chest, knees knocking lightly against Arthur’s arms as he pulls John back onto his cock with the grip on his hips.

Beneath them, the bedframe squeaks and groans as it shifts against the hardwood floor, soft and barely there like the sound of Arthur’s sac slapping against John’s ass.

He’s never been fucked like this, relentless and precise, rough but pleasurable. Most of John’s other experiences with men were lackluster at best, but it goes to show that Arthur Morgan would waltz in and effortlessly ruin him for anything else on the first try.

The definition of Arthur’s stomach gives John something interesting to rut against. They’re not rigged and cut too prominently like a washboard, but solid and thick, earned by hard work. They’re probably streaked with precome the way John’s dribbling again, eager and wet like he hadn’t just come recently.

He could come like this, with just Arthur’s lips on his neck and cock in his ass, no touch against his own cock besides that of Arthur’s stomach. It’d be a first for John, but he’s sure Arthur wouldn’t mind tucking another one of those into his satchel.

He could, but he won’t, not when one of Arthur’s hands slides up between their rutting bodies and wraps around his shaft. It’s the hand he’d slicked himself up with, and it glides easily up and down the length of him, even with the awkwardness of his knuckles bumping against first John’s stomach, then his own. The angle’s a little strange and the quarters are too cramped, but John would sooner eat a bullet than ask Arthur to rethink any of it.

All of the pleasure being wrought against him has his eyes closing again. His second orgasm is building in his gut, heat rushing outward through his limbs until John’s trembling like a pot about to boil over. He grips hard at Arthur’s shoulders, digging his fingertips in until they ache from the pressure. Against his throat, Arthur hisses through the sudden sting. His thrusts have taken on an erratic edge to them, pistoning relentlessly for a handful of moments only to suddenly taper off so Arthur can catch his breath and back a ways away from the edge.

Suddenly, the desire to make Arthur come before John does a second time pops into John’s head and won’t be ignored. He clenches hard around Arthur’s cock, grinning against the crown of his head as Arthur moans jaggedly and loses his rhythm. He does it a few more times, always at random intervals so Arthur can’t anticipate when it’ll happen. Walls fluttering as Arthur fucks into him.

“Shit,” Arthur groans. His teeth sink into the junction of John’s throat and shoulder before his hips slow to deep, punishing stabs. He worries the skin in his mouth, bursting blood vessels as he sucks. The forming bruise pulses, throbbing just behind the rush of blood in John’s veins.

He continues thrusting even through his own orgasm, still mostly erect. The only real signs John’s got that Arthur does come are the tightened grip on his hips and the quick, low grunt he gives, muffled by John’s skin. His hand even continues to stripe John’s cock, though his grip loosened. Once he’s through his own tremors, it tightens once more and Arthur picks up the pace a little with his hips. Nowhere near where they were before, but John’s sure Arthur intends to finish John a second time just like this, a proper gentlemen even for how filthy John knows him to be.

John’s second orgasm crashes into him like a wave, heavier and more disorienting than the first. Arthur’s still moving inside him, his grip around John’s cock slicker with John’s release sticky against Arthur’s fingers, but the stimulation is far away as John drifts within the pleasure.

He’s not fully back to himself when Arthur both slips out of him and gently lowers John’s useless legs back to the mattress. If his eyes were open and his brain currently working properly, he’d probably find Arthur grinning at him like the cocky asshole he is. John smiles at the thought, grin languid. He deserves it, let him gloat. At least until John can think straight again.

He registers Arthur leaving the bed more than he had the other actions, and while a little more aware of things all John can do is turn his head and watch Arthur right his lower half before crouching by the bed. He’s down there for a moment before he springs back up to full height, John’s soiled shirt in one hand and a canteen in the other.

“Bit of a mess,” Arthur says quietly, his own grin sheepish, hair in his eyes. He moves back to the bed before screwing off the lid of the canteen and wetting the sleeve of John’s shirt.

“I’ma - hm,” John mumbles. The wet garment is cold against his skin as Arthur gently dabs at him. He shies away from it, though Arthur easily follows.

“You’re’a what?” Arthur prompts.

“I’ma sleep.” Matter of fact. John even nods his head a little.

He maintains consciousness long enough to see Arthur roll his eyes and snort, fond and amused.

-

The shaking of his shoulder is what wakes him. He’s still out of it enough not to fully process what’s being said to him, but if it’s Arthur he can wait, and if it’s _not_ Arthur, well. They can wait, too.

It is Arthur, if the huffed laugh John can make out is any sign.

“Sleeping beauty, y’got a quick cat nap, but we gotta go,” John catches. It’s fuzzy at first but rapidly coming into focus as John wakes up. “S’much of an ego boost as it is, no tellin’ when those guards’ll get back up. C’mon. I’ve already fetched the horses. Get up long enough for us to find a good place to camp.”

“Camp?” John bites his lip as Arthur throws his hair out of his eyes, still grinning. “We’re not goin’ back home?”

Arthur shoots him a look. “Y’wanna be ridin’ for two hours -”

“No,” John says quickly as he sits up. His chin’s damp with drool, which he hastily wipes away with the sleeve of the dress - which...he’s still wearing. He’s not sure why it catches him by surprise, he _did_ fall asleep in it, but now that they’re outside of the heat of the moment, John finds himself bracing for taunts about it - his desire to wear the damn thing in the first place, let alone how he’d been Arthur’s  _good girl_ while spreading his legs like a whore.

“Hey, none of that,” Arthur says.

“None’a what?” John hides his scowl as he climbs to his feet, willing his legs to bear his weight without shaking beneath him, coltish and well fucked.

“None’a _that,_ ” he says again, like that clarifies anything.

With the lacing done up in the back, John can’t slip out of the soiled dress as easily as he slid into it. He struggles with it, a dog chasing its own tail, until Arthur saddles up behind him and undoes it for him. His hands are warm as they slides the dress off John’s shoulders, all of the reverence of before still in his touch even if the heat has died down.

“That sour look on your face, cut it out.” The kiss Arthur presses to the side of John’s jaw effectively wipes it away for him, has his jaw slacking in pleasant surprise. He presses another, this one high on John’s cheek, once the dress has pooled at his feet. He nudges John forward, hands on John’s hips to point him in the direction of his pants, which now sit on the far edge of the bed. On top of them is a long-sleeved shirt John recognizes as one of Arthur’s, white with rich blue patterning striping down the front.

Before the blush can even fully set in John’s cheeks, Arthur’s scooped the dress up off the floor, bundled it up against his chest, and begun heading for the door. “Get dressed and meet me outside...Princess. Chariot ain’t gonna wait forever.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (◡‿◡✿) ye(ehaw)


End file.
